The Wedding of Mike Stamford
by skitskitpotter
Summary: The day Mike Stamford gets married is the day John Watson will be forced to suffer. Not only is his reluctant roommate a constant pain, but misadventures with a frustrating crew, including a French tailor, lost boy, and group of female blog-followers, serve to test the good doctor's patience to its saintly limits.
1. Prologue: An Invitation

"John, what are you doing?"

It's a clear, lovely day, the rare few clouds splattering painter's white across the soft sapphire canvas of sky. Sherlock is sprawled out, all limbs and lankiness, beneath a golden patch of sun streaming in through one of the wide open windows. He's been surprisingly peaceable all morning, having just wrapped up a case sometime around midnight. I've no idea how a bank robbery resulted in his returning dressed like a Catholic monk, but I was too annoyed that he'd woken me up at 3:46 in the morning to bother asking.

I glance up from the scratched surface of the table to meet his navy-blue gaze. Frowning a bit, I hold up the envelope I've just dropped. "We got a letter. Says it's from Stamford, but I'm not sure what it's about."

His brow furrows. He drags himself to his feet, takes the letter from my hands with a mumbled 'let me see it' and proceeds to examine it thoroughly.

"Sherlock, it's from Stamford, I doubt it's about a case," I say, confused by his level of intensity.

He withers at me. "When was the last time we received correspondence? Neither of us keeps any intimate associates outside this flat. This," he gives the paper a violent shake, "may be posted 'Mike Stamford', but it may have been sent by Culverton Smith."

"Wha – who?" I ask, blinking as he lifts the flap and tentatively sniffs the contents. His tongue flicks out to lick at the paper before he raises an eyebrow and returns the letter to the table.

"So… what is it?" I question as he resumes his inert position on the sofa.

As I should have expected, he responds inconclusively. "It's not poison."

I sigh. "Well, that's wonderful to know," I comment, tearing the envelope open. I pull the note out and glance over it. My eyes widen.

"Sherlock – Sherlock, Stamford's getting married. He's having a wedding in Aberdeen," I say, unable to restrain a tiny thrill in my voice.

"And what do we have to do with it?" he mumbles.

I grin at him. "We're invited to the reception."

"Oh." He considers for a moment, then says, "Well, I'm not going."

My smile disintegrates. "Come on, I press, "you have to go."

"What? Why?" he asks, shoulders jerking up in alarm. He fixates on me before he resumes speaking. "I don't want to go. You seem perfectly keen, so why drag me along and ruin your optimism?"

"Because it's common courtesy," I say. "There's a reason we've been invited, Sherlock, he obviously wants both of us there. This is the best day of his life, we need to go."

He snorts contemptuously. "The best day of his life? Mustn't be particularly eventful."

I roll my eyes. "Look, I know you must think this is pedestrian – "

"'Plebeian' is actually the word I would have used."

"_Pedestrian_," I repeat forcefully. "But the point is that he wants you there, God knows why, and so I have to have you there, or _I'm_ going to look bad."

"Oh, John," he sighs almost wistfully. "You're always so fretful about that kind of thing. So aware of what people think. I really can't comprehend why it's of such importance to you. It must be wonderful, to be occupied by the basest of concerns. I find that I need a good deal more to fill my intellectual capacity."

I stand for a moment with my eyes wrenched shut and my fists held tight before I'm confident my response won't be a stream of swears. "So sorry to hear it," I say sarcastically. "You're going."

He flips over to face me, a combination of shock and stubbornness hardening the line of his jaw. "No, I refuse," he snips.

I smile mordantly. "You can't."

"You're not my mother, you can't _make_ me," he says with a mocking snigger.

"Actually, I can."

He glares at me. "No, you can't."

"Yes I – " I throw my hands up in desperation. "Sherlock, I'm not doing this with you. Bottom line is, you're going."

We stare angrily at one another for a long moment before Sherlock throws himself into the cushions in one fell, pouty swoop. I shake my head at his back as he grabs his mobile and begins attacking the screen with his fingers.

"Sherlock," I begin.

"I'm not talking to you," he says to the pillows.

I exhale a sharp breath. "Jesus Christ, I am never having children," I murmur.

Giving up, I open my laptop and log onto my e-mail account. He's a complete sod anyway. I'm not even going to bother with him, it's useless.

His irritation toward me is so strong I'm convinced it's become some tangible chemical in the air that I'm inhaling like poison. I'm surprised when its tang, very suddenly, fizzles out.

"Where did you say it was?" he asks with a hint of ingratiation.

"Thought you weren't talking to me," I say, refusing to look at him.

He hesitates. "And that was perhaps poor judgment. Where was it?"

I consider continuing to give him a hard time, but I acquiesce. "Aberdeen."

I hear him shift, his feet dragging along the sofa cushions as he pulls himself into a slouch. "And when?"

The enthusiasm evident in his voice coerces me to look at him. An excited light burns away the fog in his eyes as he stares at the screen of his phone. "Three weeks, the letter must've been out there for awhile. Guess you haven't cared to pick it up," I respond. Then again, I suppose we're equally at fault, as I haven't noticed it lying there until today. Funny that he sees it and does nothing about it, whereas I fail to see it though I would do something about it. Technically speaking, we should cover well for the other's weakness, and yet we're arguing about three-fourths of the time we spend together.

"Ah, brilliant," he whispers. Finally looking up at me, he says, "Then that's settled. Rent me a dinner jacket, would you."

"Dinner – " I begin. With a frown, I say, "Wait, no, a minute ago the idea was bloody _offensive_ to you, now I have to go and get you a suit?"

"Yes, I'm six feet tall and a size – "

"No, you can't give me all of that and then just change your mind," I snap.

His expression breaks into an impish smile. "You must understand, John. There's something afoot in Aberdeen. It promises to be interesting."

As he twirls up to his feet and goes flitting down the hallway, I decide that, if I am ever going to commit suicide, it will be on July 15.


	2. Day One: The Devil Sleeps in Aberdeen

I've been on the line for two hours with the local tailor.

So far, rather than making any headway concerning the problem of Sherlock's incorrectly sized dinner suit, I've learned that his name is Jacques but he prefers to go by Jack, he's married to some woman named Anne and she's apparently descended from a line of Scandinavian nobles, he has one daughter – I think her name is Anne, too, and she's in the sixth form, but his French accent is so thick that I found it difficult to decipher what he was saying about her – and he owns a most garrulous Chihuahua, which I could hear yapping over the phone, named Spiffles, or Spiffy, or Spitty, or something.

"Yes, it's really wonderful," I say through tight teeth in response to his comment on the quality of the wrong-sized suit's wool, "but I've been requesting the right cut for a week now, and I need it today."

"Yes, I understand," he responds after calling at his dog to quiet down for what must be the fiftieth time, "but it is of a tender make, the one you ask for, and – oh, Anne, be a dove, would you – "

There's some indistinguishable muttering over the line, broken only by the sound of a loud metallic clang from upstairs. Covering the receiver, I shout, "Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing? I asked you to stop that an hour ago!"

There's some shuffling and stumbling, and just as the tailor returns to the phone, Sherlock's muffled voice returns, "I need to borrow a pair of socks."

As my mind grapples with what he possibly could have done to need another pair of socks, the tailor's on about some fabric and how he might be able to have the suit ready at some point today if, of course, I pay extra. I shout up, "I'll deal with you in a minute!" and return to addressing the tailor.

"How much is the fee?" I ask, though I have to struggle against the urge to tell him that my salary is miniscule and my roommate only makes money from selling all the cufflinks and ties he receives as thank-you gifts from clients, and that there's no reason I should have to pay some swindling git extra to rush-prepare the item I've been seeking for seven days.

"Twenty quid. Spivvy, please quiet down, my dearie."

I ram my fist against the table as there is yet more ruckus upstairs. "Sherlock, you absolute – ! We are leaving in fifteen minutes, are you even packed?"

I inhale deeply before I uncover the receiver. "Alright, that's fine. I'll be over within the hour." I hang up with a quick 'goodbye' to save myself from yet another verbal expose on chiffon.

I stumble over the nondescript mounds of stuff Sherlock and I have rooted up in searching for trip supplies as I make my way to the stairs. "What the hell are you looking for?" I call out as I ascend to the upper hallway.

He comes bolting out of my room, dragging the scent of smoke and ash and dangling my socks in one slender, chemical-stained hand.

Oh, God, my room.

On seeing the look on my face, he rolls his eyes, slides past me, and calls over his shoulder, "I wasn't doing anything with your room, it's quite unscathed."

I spin around and follow him downstairs. "Where is your suitcase?" I ask his receding back.

He shoves it at me as I enter into the kitchen. I'm nearly bowled over by the weight of it. "What the hell do you have in here, rocks?"

"It's for the case, John, the case," he responds. He disappears down the hallway.

Struggling with whatever household furniture he's planning to take along, I stagger over to grab my own luggage and marvel at how light it is compared to his. I suppose it only makes sense that the bigger personality carries the weightier belongings, and said carrying ends up being done by his unfortunate intimates. Shame that I like him as much as I do.

He returns in a flurry of black hair and white shirt, bearing only his mobile in hand. Although it can't have been more than three hours since he last showered, he manages to retain a rather obvious smell of formaldehyde. I'll be glad for that when it's up my nostrils for the entirety of a cramped, sweltering eight-hour train ride.

I consider forcing him to take his own belongings, but he's out the door and down the steps before I even have the chance to approach him. I rush out after him, nearly tripping in my haste and having to bid Mrs. Hudson a rapid and apologetic goodbye.

He's already hailed a cab and is comfortably draped over one of the seats by the time I've gotten the door closed. His fingers begin drilling in an impatient rap as I load our luggage and fumble to swing myself inside. "You're slow," he comments, glancing pointedly out the window.

I'm dreading my next encounter with the tailor far too much to respond.

I give the driver the address and sit back. There isn't much left for me to do but pray that the city traffic won't be bad enough to deliver us late to the depot.

Sherlock, in what I've come to realise is a matter of habit during travel, is busy clicking away at his phone. The sound of his fingertips against the screen is so frequent that an outside observer would probably assume he was angry, but I've grown to find his tapping rather calming. I suppose it's a consequence of familiarity that those sorts of quirks end up hailing a sense of warmth.

It's a thankfully small twenty minutes before the cab pulls to a halt outside the tailor's boutique. Two quid and I bid the driver to wait a few moments while I go in to fetch the suit.

As I swing open the glass door to the boutique – most creatively named "Boutique" – I'm forced to gasp for clean oxygen amidst the overwhelming assault of what must be about a hundred different perfumes all at once. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the nausea-inducing jungle of overly bright colours in a swathe over the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the racks, the shelves even as my ears attempt to drone out the screeching music booming from some speakers lost among the conflagration.

I wade through piles of incongruous fabrics before I find the front counter. Over it is draped Jacques – Jack – in perhaps the least offensive article of clothing in the entire building, a very plain black suit with a very gaudy studded tie.

"Ah, is this Mr Watson?" he inquires. His accent is slightly more comprehendible in person.

"Yes, hi," I say, not bothering to correct the 'mister' to 'doctor'. "I'm just here to pick up that dinner jacket," I add with the hope that I'm discouraging conversation.

"Yes, yes, of course." With a clearing of his throat, he rests his hand facing palm-up on the desk, gives me an indicative look. I place the twenty quid down with as little distaste as I can manage. He promptly turns around and disappears into a back room.

I have to endure a cooing argument between him and his most obnoxious of pets before he returns with the dinner jacket in a garment bag. With very little care he hands the item over.

"Uh, ta," I offer.

He grimaces at me, quite literally grimaces. "Yes, yes, off with you then," he snips. He doesn't need to tell me twice.

I practically run to the cab, throw the suit down on the seats and ask the driver to take us to the train depot. It's with a great sigh of relief that I lean back, rest my head in one hand.

Sherlock takes two seconds from his mobile to glance at me. "What _is_ that?" he asks, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the fragrance that must be ingrained in my skin.

I press my lips together. "Next time we need something picked up, you're going," I say forcefully.

There's traffic on the outskirts of Westminster, and so we're a bit later to the station than I would have liked; yet upon arrival, it's immediately apparent thanks to the cold word of the racing time signals that our ride is an hour delayed. So I suppose that it doesn't matter anyway.

Thankfully, Sherlock has his case to occupy him, else I'm sure he would be storming about in an insult-ridden rage against both me and every poor innocent in the depot. Completely unconcerned with the delay, he remains with his phone firmly clenched in one hand, the other tapping out an endless number of searches. I try reading whatever it is that's concerning him over his shoulder, but he goes through the text so quickly that I soon decide it's useless for me to attempt comprehension.

Normally I would be bored to death, having nothing to do but stare at his watch as the minutes drag heavy-footedly by, but I find myself feeling in something of a comfortable lull seated so familiarly at his side. The odd presence we affect on one another is so constant that I don't notice it unless we're surrounded by chaos and noise, huddled together on a bench or a seat as if to keep warm against the cutting winds of a bitter winter. It gives me the feeling that there is soft music playing somewhere, and that it is quavering right on the edge of my hearing, just enough to calm my breath and droop my eyelids. It's a nice feeling.

Just as my chin is dipping dangerously close to my chest – I suppose I didn't sleep very well – he swings to his feet and gives my shoulder a rather sharp shove. I rush after him, luggage in hand, to the tenth platform, where a crowd of passengers has already gathered.

It's an old-fashioned locomotive that we board, with dim, almost romantically golden lights at regular intervals along the red rows of seats. The yellowish interior walls board a plain gray aisle, down which Sherlock leads me to the emptiest corner of the train he can find. We bunch up on one of these vacant seats, he closer to the grinningly polished window, our baggage groaning down on the rafters above.

"What are you doing, anyway?" I ask before he can re-absorb himself with his phone.

"For the case. Obviously," he says with a snide inclination of his chin.

I frown. "Yeah, I got that far by myself. What is the case?"

He observes the seat opposite us before answering the ceiling. "It's a rather complicated matter. Given my analysis of your reading comprehension rate from a few minutes before, I doubt you'd be able to absorb it."

I stare at him, almost disbelieving of his haughtiness, until he turns to look at me and his terse expression breaks into a teasing smile. Unable to resist, I return it.

"It's a curious incident, really. If you're planning on doing your little blog about it, I'd suggest referring to it as 'The Greco-Roman Cameos'." He makes the comment offhandedly, but I don't miss the tiny hint of excitement that ripples through the unbroken velvet of his voice.

"So it's some sort of mythology thing, then," I venture.

His brow twitches in what I hope to be validation. "I suppose you'd be better off saying it's some sort of reality thing, actually. Apparently there's a fable come true."

I blink in surprise. "Well, that's rather fantastic."

"Not really," he auto-corrects. "I've completed the reasoning for a majority of the case, and I believe the conclusion is quite obvious by this point. I simply need to see it through."

"Oh. Okay." We're quiet for a few moments, and so I go on, "Whose case is it? It's certainly not Lestrade's."

He tilts his head at me. "Mr Jabez Wilson's. We haven't met in person."

I crack a smile. "Of course not."

"What do you mean by that?" he snips, frowning.

"Well, you know – face-to-face doesn't really appeal to you."

Blinking at me for a moment, he affirms a 'no' and promptly returns to his mobile.

My back collides with the seat as, finally, the pistons on the train wheels begin pumping and we surge forward. Checking his watch, I find that it's a quarter after noon. I calculate that we'll end up in Aberdeen around nine.

We're free of the city within the hour, the hard edges of its gray buildings yielding to spongy, vibrant summer grass. I admire the foliage whisking past the windowpane for some time; I'm unused to such a wealth of nature, and I find it beautiful.

Sherlock, as expected, is completely unappreciative, still clicking away on his phone as usual. He does glance up in thought occasionally, but it's only to stare at the opposite seat and quickly return to the screen. Around half past one, just as the train is making its first stop, he stiffens up suddenly and turns his nose to the ceiling, his lips tightly together and his eyes wrenched shut.

Seeing the grim line of his face, I go to ask him what's wrong when I see the empty battery signal flashing on the mobile screen.

Wonderful.

"Should have charged it," I mutter as he immediately launches out on how deeply consumed by grief he is following the loss of his ability to finish a particularly palatable treatise on crystallised intelligence, and how now he has to put up with me – because, of course, I'm so offensive to him – for the next God-knows-how-long, and how it's so ridiculously hot and he's certain this train does not possess the updated cooling facilities that should be required by law; and all the while, I can only think that his formaldehyde cologne is due to give me a migraine.

He stops abruptly in his tirade to glance above my head and persuasively say, "Someone's sitting there."

I follow the line of his sight to glimpse an owl-nosed, bespectacled, skeletally thin man weighed down by a stack of thick books balanced in two trembling arms. Pitying his desolate expression, I quickly say, "That's just his sense of humour, the seat's empty."

He flashes me a thankful grin even as I feel Sherlock's glare burning into the back of my head.

"Um… it's a bit rickety in here, isn't it?" he offers nervously.

I respond with a vague grin.

"Graduate student, prestigious university judging by the expense of the jacket cloth. Could be for some event or ceremony, but I'd say that's unlikely since you're carrying those books with you. Far too many to transport comfortably, you're obviously not looking to do any light reading."

"Sherlock," I warn, but he dismisses me and continues, "Ninety percent of those are textbooks, you're a maths student going by the top title – " I observe that it's "Physical Applications of Tensor Calculus", " – but I see two that don't fit the scholar's mold, the thin one with the bright cover on the bottom of the stack and the one you're holding. Bottom suggests it was the first one you thought to bring, the fact that you're holding the other suggests it's of personal importance to you. Clearly there's an emotional relationship between them."

As he pauses for breath and the newcomer stares at him in a mixture of disbelief and discomfort, I make to stop him, but he gushes on with intense momentum. "You're a gadgets man, that's the newest model they've released," as he nods at the iPhone in the man's pocket, "you clearly wouldn't waste your time on a topic as frivolous as astrology." Indeed, the book gripped in his hands is entitled "The Predictions of the Zodiac". "It's a gift, then, certainly not given to you as you wouldn't have desired to further burden yourself by bringing it along. I'll venture the volume at the bottom of the pile is intended for the same girl. 'Girl?' Yes, obviously, and the rather pungent scent of that Burberry cologne suggests she's not your mum. Not a relative at all, actually, a date in prospective. Ah, but there's a bit of a problem, no?"

"Sherlock, give it a rest," I push as I see where this is going, but he again disregards me. "You're nervous, very nervous, and it's to do with her. You've got those pages in a vice grip, both hands, and though you're certainly finding me disconcerting, it's the book you're holding – no grasping the edge of the seat or the fabric of your trousers – so the connection to this woman is transparent. If you were already dating her and were attempting to assuage the fallout of an argument, you wouldn't need to dress with such evident intent to make an impression, it already would have been made. No, you fancy her, and you doubt she returns the sentiment, so you're trying to change her mind. She's one of those unsettling pretty girls, the kind over whom people like him – " he rudely jerks a thumb in my direction " – fawn. You know her only by some lucky twist of fate, perhaps she's a family friend or a schoolmate; you tutored her, or something similar, otherwise I doubt she'd give you a second glance. You understand, women are chemically attracted to the quality of confidence when present in men – pheromones. However, you reek of nearly nonexistent poise, most definitely the bookish kind who got hit up for change on the schoolyard – "

My foot comes down so hard on his that he cuts off in a gasp. I place more pressure on him until, eyes watering, he chokes, "And I'm sure you'll have a very happy relationship."

The man buoys up with glee, failing to notice that I've forced the comment out of Sherlock, and opens up one of his texts to read in his lap. Sherlock glares daggers at me before fixating on the window.

We're all silent for a time until, apparently soothed by the grinding of the wheels on the track, the maths student dozes off and proceeds to snore rather obscenely. I can do nothing but place my head in my hands.

"We wouldn't have to deal with him if you had said the seat was occupied," Sherlock growls. "And I swear you broke a toe." He pulls off his shoe to massage his foot.

"Poor thing. Why don't you let Mummy kiss it better?" I grit.

He heaves a sigh, gingerly presses his toes to the floor and winces at the pain. "It's going to bruise."

"Too bad."

The green countryside has shifted back to industrial gray, its soft hills and slopes sharpening into hard square edifices. I can see the vague shapes of blue mountains towering up in the west.

Sherlock's begun shifting around, spreading himself out as much as possible. Normally I'd be annoyed, but I have to sympathise; the heat is really unbearable, and the frequent stops we've made upon crossing into Manchester only make it worse as more passengers are added to the seats. "I'm sweltering," he mutters, apparently unable to find a decent position. "Shove over."

I can't stand it when he bosses me around, but I'm really in no mood to argue, and so I move to the edge of the seat and stretch myself out.

The ride is beginning to feel endless, and I figure we must be at least halfway there, but I find that we've only been on for about three hours when we pass out of Leeds. With an unabashed lack of scruple, Sherlock takes one of the snoring student's texts and begins flipping through it. His interest barely lasts for two minutes. "God, how can you stand it," he says under his breath as he violently returns the book to the pile.

His agitation infects me, and I soon find myself impatiently cracking my knuckles and tapping my feet in response to his shifting and sighing. I'm certain my shirt is ruined, as the chest and underarms are visibly damp with sweat, and God how I wish someone would shout or drop something so that kid would wake up and that snoring would stop. I think about this as long and hard as I can, hoping that Sherlock is so smart he can somehow pick up on my brainwaves and do what I'm mentally willing him. It doesn't work, of course, but it does lead me to the rather amusing idea of my detective friend dressed in a cape and tights with a disproportionately large head, fighting criminals via telekinesis like the superheroes in the American comics. Though I don't think he's got the build for that role. He's far too scrawny.

We reach the halfway point of the trip time about a quarter of the way between Leeds and Glasgow. I think Sherlock's fallen asleep by this point; either that, or he's taken up some line of thought that occupies him as he's lying – yes, literally sprawled out on his back like we're at home with his foot obscenely close to my hip – very still and very silent. Whatever it is, I decide it would be unwise to bestir him and instead tap out song rhythms on my knees.

He bestirs himself. "'Nowhere Man'?"

I suppose the surprise must show on my face when I turn to him, because he grins smugly and again leans back. "You like the Beatles?" I ask.

"No."

"…Okay."

The minutes drag on like a man pulling himself – and some very heavy motor vehicle chained to his legs – across the ground by means of his pointer finger. We pass Liverpool, York, Carlisle, and Edinburgh, where the maths student finally starts and wakes and gets off, bidding me a shy goodbye and twitching nervously at Sherlock, who takes no notice of him whatsoever. It's at this point that we come out of mountain territory and I'm able to catch foggy glimpses of the North Sea out the east window. Its waters, a hazy indigo at this distance, gleam shades of orange in the light of the sun as it begins to sink.

"So we're in Scotland now?" I brave to ask my roommate, who hasn't moved from his comatose stance for two hours.

"Yes," he responds. He doesn't even look out the window. I don't know if he's going by the amount of time we've been on, or if he's just answering in the affirmative to shut me up. It's probably a mixture of both.

"Have you ever been to Scotland?" I ask in a purposeful attempt to defy his silent will.

He restrains a yawn. "Yes."

I nod. "Okay. I haven't."

"Fascinating."

Understanding that, as usual, any attempt at conversation with him will only lead to my frustration and disparagement, I take interest in the grasslands rushing past the window. They blush softly in the twilight, trees spouting out at regular intervals. They're sparse, stiff, strong trees, their branches wiry yet heavy and their trunks tilted yet rugged. Occasionally, they hide quaint little cottages or dot the edges of villages, the homes in which are so tightly clustered that I'm affected by a sense of cosiness. I can barely discern the forms of sheep and cows brimming in gray-green pastures.

Every now and then we cross over a tall reddish bridge bordered by bushes whose tendrils flirt with the grass. I have a sensation close to that of flying as my eyes follow the rising and dipping lines of the overgrown vales on either side of the train. Amongst the chatter of the passengers, I begin to hear a greater proportion of the round, rolling Scottish brogue prevailing above the mix of English enunciations. I'm soon convinced that Sherlock and I must be the only Londoners left, and neither of us is doing any speaking at all.

I'm lost in the view racing past the windows and appreciating the coolness brought on by the setting sun when the intercom clicks on. The next stop is Aberdeen.

Even Sherlock opens his eyes at that, gathers his spindly legs beneath him to right himself into a vague slump. After a moment of consideration, he kicks his feet out to rest them on the opposite seat. I resist the urge to tell him how rude he's being because he probably wouldn't care.

We arrive in the depot five after nine, slog through a small crowd with our luggage before we're out on the open street. It's quiet, empty, and while I would normally be glad for the tranquility, it means that the cabs are few and far between. We walk a few blocks before finally hailing one down. I ask the driver to take us to the nearest hotel.

I don't realise how much of a mistake this request is until the building is within sight.

It's a brown, stout thing, a cheap-looking overnight stay on the corner of an empty street. Construction wood and metal tumble haphazardly off its right side in a shower of sawdust and dirt. With the sun down by now, the grime smudging up the windows is all the more prominent in their nauseating artificial glow. The lights naming the building are only partially functional so that the word "hotel" is missing its last three letters – something which I surely would have elbowed a mate and sniggered about in youth.

I consider asking the cabbie to take us somewhere else, but I'm too tired and sore from the train ride to be picky. It's a necessary consequence of fatigue that I become more optimistic, probably as part of some subconscious instinct that keeps me from walking any further when I don't want to, and I manage to convince myself that the rooms will be nicer than would be assumed. It's just the construction work that's dirtying up the outside of the building.

Yet the lobby isn't particularly promising in its assault on my senses.

The ventilation system must be broken, because it's icy to the point that my teeth clench together to keep from chattering. Ironic that I've gone all boiling day happily awaiting an air-conditioned building, and it's now far too cold to be comfortable. Not only that, but there's a gut-wrenching swagger of cheap alcohol, or maybe the shiver of wet dog, or something like the heady sweet of expired potpourri – if that even exists – in the air.

I'm even more disheartened by the sight of the receptionist drooping over the front counter. I glance behind me at the door, now seriously considering leaving despite my earlier decision, when my attention is drawn back by the sound of a rapping fist. Sherlock, regal and imposing in all his posture and poise and precision, is frowning threateningly down at the man, who stares uncomprehendingly up at him.

I rush to the counter before my friend can inflict any damage. "Hi, we're just looking for rooms. Two singles," I say quickly.

The receptionist drags his chin out of a drooled-on hand as his eyes drift lazily about my face. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, and then seems to change his mind and remains staring at me. Growing uncomfortable, I glance off to the side and press, "Two rooms for two nights, how much would that be?"

His silence forces me to meet his blank gaze again. I notice that his pupils are unnaturally large amidst a blinking wash of hazel. Disconcerted and rushed on by Sherlock's palpably increasing impatience, I prompt with an inevitable hint of nerves, "Excuse me, two rooms – "

"'S one-sixty." His response, delivered in a heavy American drawl, startles me. There's a strange quality of lethargic urgency to his voice, as if he's struggling to coax himself out of some bizarre invisible world that he doesn't really want to leave. It's at this point that I begin to wonder if he's been roused from something a bit headier than a nice dream.

I grin in a way that I hope is encouraging. "Right, so," I remove my wallet from my pocket, "where would we be?"

"Uh," he starts with some effort, "like, you…" He points toward my left, but I notice his eyes remain perfectly still.

I zip the billfold closed and place the sum on the table. I'm clearing my throat to draw his attention back when Sherlock opens his mouth.

"John, put your wallet away." I glance at him as he rounds on the receptionist, his stony eyes sparking flint. "Your designs on his money are perfectly clear. Even someone with less of an intelligence quotient than yours could see that. This is a low-end job, but it's still the best that would take you – the number of desperate 'help-requested' signs I observed during the cab ride here offering readily accessible occupations suggests that the drug habit's been around for a while – and you're a despicable employee, certainly you're on minimum wage and I doubt it's enough to get your next fix. It's cocaine, inhaled, that's the more party-going style, so likely it was introduced to you by some simple-minded company at one of those nightclubs in America, they don't proliferate here; your expression suggests confusion, so allow me to say that the dilated pupils and the bloody tissues in the rubbish bin are evidence enough. _Do_ try and keep up, I know the complexity of what I'm saying must present a great challenge to your cerebral facilities – I use the term loosely – but the frankly vacuous expression borders on nauseating and I prefer to work on a settled stomach. Now show us to our rooms before my patience snaps completely."

An uncomfortable silence settles on the room. A shiver in his voice, the receptionist quavers, "We – we don't have any more singles, they're doing construction…" His hesitation draws something bordering on a growl from Sherlock's throat, and he rushes on, "We have other rooms, though. We have rooms for two."

"That's fine," I say quickly.

He dashes into a drawer and promptly pulls out a set of keys. Sherlock rips them from his hands and, tossing his nose in the air, whisks down the left hall. I follow him with a mumbled goodbye to the receptionist.

I keep beside my friend as we go striding down the passage. The greenish walls are cracked with innumerable little blemishes, the smell of must hanging in the air. "That was a bit rough, you know," I comment.

Sherlock turns incredulously to me. "He wanted your money!" he exclaims.

"Yeah, well..." I shrug. "Maybe he needed it, Sherlock. He didn't exactly look like he had much of it."

"You're an idiot."

I sigh.

I'm gladdened by the fact that there's some detergent-and-soap-scented mouthwash to relieve the halitosis of the air upon entry into the room. I would almost call the smell pleasant – it's rosy, almost sugary – if not for the fact that it's too strong for my taste. It's still cold as anything, but at least the space is clean.

"Oh, well, this isn't so – "

My optimism breaks off with my words as I observe the bed. The one, sole, solitary double bed with the starch-plain sheets in the middle of the room.

Unconcerned or, as it occurs to me that the connotation is completely lost on him – not that he's unaware of it, not in theory, but that he would never in a million years think that it applies to him of all people – oblivious, Sherlock drops his suitcase unceremoniously on the floor and begins to rout through it. He tears a large object, covered with a heavy black cloth, out, along with his Velcro strip of tools and some other indefinable blanketed stuff.

"Are you leaving already?" I ask. I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose, being that I know him and his hit-or-miss promptness, but the question emerges anyway.

"Obviously," he says without so much as a glance.

"Do you want me to – ?" But he's out the door, the mounds of dark fabric he's holding twirling out elegant patterns at his feet.

I'm at first annoyed that it's now up to me to go sorting through all his rubbish on top of my own neatly organised belongings, but on second thought, I figure that I would've ended up having to do that anyway. He would have found some excuse, that it was boring or tiring or menial; would have collapsed on the bed with a groan and found some way to infuriate me into unpacking his stuff. More thankfully, I realise he'll be out all night, which saves us the discussion about sleeping arrangements I would have dreaded carrying on. I assume it'll be much the same tomorrow, or that if he finishes the case tonight, he'll have brought along some chemicals or microscopes that will obsess his intellect through the next morning.

Relieved by this realisation, I make to explore the entirety of the room. It's of a fair size, perfectly square in shape, furnished sparsely but comfortably. There is the aforementioned bed whose four cylindrical black posts spout up from the jungle of the gray carpet. A lamp grows in the corner opposite the door, plain with its lacy white shade and bark-colored post. Across the bed reflect two identical wooden dressers, and I'm impressed to find even an old telly interrupting the vine-like flow of the rug. I find that the picture is black-and-white when I go to turn it on, and the sound doesn't appear to work, so I'm led to believe that an old guest left the item here by accident. I notice a thick layer of dust covering the entire set, marred by a number of fingerprints around where I tried the buttons, presumably from more recent occupants who attempted exactly what I had. I pride myself on this small deduction, though I'm a bit disturbed that the staff has neither cleaned nor removed the telly for what must be at least a year.

The bathroom is off to the right, a small rectangular space with a walk-in shower, toilet, sink, and mirror. My reflection is dulled by a thin film of dried soap when I turn to look at it, but the rest of the room is delightfully clean, right down to the spotless glow of the white tiled floor. I open the square doors beneath the sink to find a few rolls of toilet paper, some paper towels, extra hand wash, and a couple of towels. The shower is fully stocked with soap and shampoo.

Satisfied as to the room's amenities, I begin going through our luggage. I decide to acquaint myself with the positioning of the space by sorting my belongings first, and then tackling Sherlock's mess when I'm more confident in my plans for the organisational scheme. I choose to sleep on the left side of the bed, and so I put my clothes in the left dresser. As I have things back home, I put my shirts and pants in the top drawer, trousers and socks in the bottom, shoes beneath. I drape my dinner suit over the top as there's nowhere else for me to put it. I find my small set of toiletries and sort them out in the bathroom. Though I brought along a few catalogues and my laptop, I doubt that I'll be reading and I don't think that the Internet connection is free. I set the magazines and electronics in the bottom dresser drawer nevertheless.

Once I'm changed into pyjamas and satisfied as to what I've done, I glance over at his suitcase. It's practically bulging at the seams.

I realise immediately that he hasn't brought enough shirts and I'll end up having to lend him something. I can already hear his protests as he squeezes his lanky frame into one of my plaids. At least I'll be able to argue that I told him a number of times to make sure he had everything he needed, and his dismissal of my warnings is now biting him in the arse.

I copy with his luggage what I've done with mine – admittedly I'm a bit uncomfortable handling his undergarments – though it takes much longer as I'm forced to rout through indistinguishable mounds of disorganised nonsense. I find a lonely sock stuffed into a shirt sleeve, trousers caught on a microscope knob, a psychology text eating some pants; I have no idea where to keep his chemicals, his lab equipment, his bloody violin; I marvel at the fact that he's miraculously managed to cram this all into one sole, solitary suitcase; I groan when I find that I've been at this for nearly an hour.

When finally I've finished, I collapse onto the bed sheets with self-congratulatory limpness. It's a poor idea. The mattress is so ridiculously rigid that pain blossoms in the back of my head where it attempts to settle. I hope that the pillows are supportive enough to assuage some of the discomfort, but apparently there's a rule somewhere that the harder the bed, the softer its pillows, because my neck sinks so deeply into the thin, pliant down that I have to check to make sure I'm really resting upon it. My frustration is only increased by the sound of a siren suddenly sounding off somewhere down the street.

Thankfully, the noise only lasts for a few minutes. Still shivering in the relentlessness of the air conditioning, I shift the covers and blankets over myself. Flat on my back, with one arm over my stomach and the other beneath my head, and comfortably – though not completely – warm, I prepare to sleep well without having to deal with any of Sherlock's racket.

And yet I feel strange. The room is quiet, so very quiet. It's that unusual, hateful sort of silence that buzzes deafeningly around empty space. I keep expecting the pad of pacing bare feet, the pluck on the strings of a three-in-the-morning violin, the muttering and grumbling and huffing. My ears search in vain for the clatter with which I've grown so familiar. I wait for the gruff command to put the kettle on, brew a coffee, black, two sugars, but it doesn't come. I shuffle about restlessly as I anticipate an excited shout at my ear, the gleeful presentation of the solution to some particularly complex crime, the thrilling proposition of a midnight chase through the byways of London. Indeed, it's very strange.

That git.

-

_Click – click – creak_.

I hold back the gasp on my lips as my eyes leap awake. Not yet daring to move, I can only see the black shadow of a tall man cast against a pool of yellow light on the carpet.

As the shadow grows into the room, I slowly, silently, reach for the nightstand. I break into a cold sweat when I contact the garment bag and realise that I am alone in the hotel room without my gun.

"John, what are you doing?"

The voice lands on my ears in a crashing baritone wave of relief and annoyance. Loosing a sigh containing both, I mutter, "You scared the shit out of me. I didn't think you'd be home, you never bothered to tell me."

He clicks on the floor lamp, which proceeds to glare unwelcomingly into my squinting eyes. I see that his face is slightly flushed, small beads of sweat are dripping from his mess of hair, his breath is coming quicker than it usually does. "You enjoy cursing when you're angry," he comments as the bundle in his hands drops unceremoniously onto the floor.

I draw myself up with a stifled yawn. "Were you running?"

He twirls around to face me. "Yes, there was something of an issue." I don't bother to ask. "It's all settled now."

"So the case is finished?"

He nods. "Not as interesting as I would have hoped, but satisfactory nonetheless."

He's a bloody art critic when it comes to crime.

He steps into the bathroom and reemerges in pyjamas. I'm about to ask him to please put his dirty laundry with mine when he kicks aside the canvas he's brought home and clicks out the light with an air of finality. Blinking the remaining sleep from my eyes, I glance over at the shadow of his figure. "Are you…" I realise what I'm about to ask. Oh, God. "Going to sleep?"

"Obviously."

I can't fathom how much fate must hate me that it is today, of every single blessed day I've lived with him, that he willingly chooses to sleep.

"…Oh." There isn't even a hint of discomfort in his tone; I immediately see that my embarrassment, already pricking heat beneath my ears, is my own problem. I dismiss the whisperings in the newspapers and on the blog and remind myself that we're mature adults. There is no reason I should feel ill at ease. I shift closer to the edge of the bed and even out the blankets. "Okay, um… is that – "

He crumples down atop the sheets before I can finish the question, rocking the entire mattress as he throws the covers over himself.

I can already tell that I'm going to sleep well.

"Good night," I offer. Unsurprisingly, I get no response.

It's just as my eyelids are sinking closed that Sherlock violently flips over onto his other side. I glance at him for a moment, and seeing that he's quite still, I settle back as comfortably as the bed permits.

He jolts me out of a state of half-sleep when he shifts again. I hear the blankets rustling as he drags his pillow up to his chest. I hear the mattress creaking as he rolls onto his stomach. I hear the sheets billowing as he kicks a foot out. "Alright there?" I ask, restraining a sigh while hoping that he'll be prompted to remain still.

"I'm not comfortable," he mutters. From the way his voice is muffled, I figure he must have his face buried into his pillow.

"Can you try and get comfortable?"

"I am."

I'm afraid that asking him to be quieter might only yield the opposite result, and so I do what I would have asked him to and keep my mouth shut. I shouldn't even bother asking him favours anymore. I don't think something can be classified as a "favour" if the requester of said something has an easier time doing it himself, without the intervention of his very smart, very frustrating roommate.

I purposely tense the muscles in my neck to keep myself awake in case he cares to continue his tossing and turning. I don't know what I was expecting, because of course he does.

From where he begins flat on his stomach in the pillow, he twists his head, once, twice, thrice, and then he gives that up and flips onto his side. He turns onto the other one, turns back onto the other other one, turns again back onto the other other other one, and remains still for one heavenly moment. And then he's on his stomach again, and then his legs are pulled up beneath him, and then he kicks them back out, and then he mutters something incomprehensible and swings up to his feet. I squeeze my pillow tight around my suffering ears to block out the sound of his pacing. And I thought that I missed that. I must have been drugged.

He returns to the sheets with all the consummate grace of a panicked elephant. I'm nearly rolled over by the sudden and violent tug he gives the blankets. "Sherlock!" I shout.

"What?" he snips, sounding so reminiscent of a defiant fourteen-year-old that I want to kill myself.

Calming my anger before we end up in a full-blown war, because probability suggest we will, I say calmly, reasonably, "Just sit still and go to sleep. You'll get comfortable."

"But now I'm cold." He tugs again on the sheets, this time with enough force that I have to catch them over my shoulder before they go flying.

My teeth gritted, I mutter, "Well _I'm_ going to be cold if you take the blankets. If it's really so unbearable, just move closer."

"But then I wouldn't be comfortable." As if to prove his point, he flips over yet again.

I press a hand to my forehead, which is beginning to ache painfully. He's going to end up causing my brain to hemorrhage one day. "Okay, then maybe if you would just – "

I'm cut off by the abrupt contortion of my face by a foot.

A bloody blessed foot.

"Sherlock, I _swear_ to God!" I explode.

"Wh – ?"

I grab his leg and make to throw it off to the side, but he immediately stiffens up and pushes against me. "What are you doing?" he exclaims.

"Get the _hell_ off of me!" I attempt to force him again. He shoves my arm away with typical defiance, kicking my chin in the process. I respond by throwing my arms around his legs and keeping them locked in a vice grip as he fights to break free. Soon seeing that his struggle is useless, his head lifts up to seethe at me in the darkness. It's then as if he changes his mind about something, because I see the moonlit scowl on his face fade to an expression of calm.

"Please let go," he says pleasantly.

I don't fall for it. "You must think I'm an idiot, for a miniscule display of what should be typical politeness to sway me."

His brow hardens. "Apparently not, but I do think you'd like to sleep tonight."

We stare each other down for a long, terse moment of stalemate before, eyes unmoving, I say, "Fine. If you promise to stay perfectly still and leave me my share of sheets, I'll let go of you."

"Doesn't seem very fair, if I'm going to end up cold."

I smile mordantly. "Then I'll make you sleep on the carpet. I'll wager it's quite a bit colder down there."

He laughs, openly mocking. "You couldn't make me."

I grip him all the tighter. "Are you sure?"

He swallows, and I wonder if it's pride going down his throat rather than saliva. Then again, I think he'd need an exponentially wider esophagus to knock it – all of it – back. "Fine. I comply."

I hesitate, wondering if his promise will give way to nothing more than subterfuge, when he says with a roll of his eyes, "I'm not lying."

I take his word for it. My grip around him eases up, and he draws his feet out from beneath my shoulders as he re-orients his head the proper way. He curls into a fetal ball on one side and remains quite still.

Thank God.

I'm just drifting off when, with a hint of compunction, he murmurs, "Good night."

My resolve melts. "Good night, Sherlock."


	3. Day Two Morning: The Reception from Hell

AN: This chapter was getting a bit too long to be comfortably read in one sitting, so I decided I would split it into parts. Expect the second half about a week to two weeks from now.

The first thing I'm aware of upon waking is the fact that one of Sherlock's legs is draped over both of mine.

God damn it, he wins arguments in his sleep.

I grab his ankle and push it over just enough that he's not touching me. A vague grunt emerges from his throat in unconscious protest.

As I push myself up, wincing at the tinge of pain in my aging back, I foggily realise that he doesn't appear to have a head. I can see the line of his back up to his shoulders, and then nothing.

I draw further up to see that his mess of black curls, in a halo around his white face, is dangling toward the carpet, his fingers tracing the ground. His neck is bent at the most uncomfortable of angles to permit his head to sway off the edge of the bed. It's possibly the most painful-looking position in which I've ever seen anyone sleep.

With a sigh, I slide out from beneath the sheets and stumble over to his side of the bed. I carefully lift his head onto a pillow, pull his arms up so they no longer hang, and, shaking my head, grab a tissue to swipe away the line of dribble trickling from between his slightly parted lips. I suppose he compensates for his lack of rest by being an extraordinarily heavy sleeper, as not once during all my moving of him does he so much as stir.

It's early, the dim sunlight coming in through the room window corroborating the 5:22 reading on the electric clock. The ceremony begins at ten, and I figure that we'll need about half an hour for travel; so I resolve to wake the slumbering beast at eight and go about my typical morning for the time being.

The shower can't seem to decide if it would like to burn or freeze me to death, as the slightest tilt of the knobs has either fire or ice descending upon me. I'd like to step out from the attack as quickly as possible, but the soap has trouble lathering and the shampoo won't take to my hair, so I end up alternately sweating and shivering for about thirty minutes.

Once there's a ratty towel around my waist and a generous dose of product in my hair, I make to turn on the faucet with the hope of brushing my teeth. Even with the handle all the way up, I get no water. I fuss with the mechanism for a few minutes, check to see if there are any obvious problems with the plumbing and, finding none, I resort to using the shower as a sink. It's highly tedious.

It's barely a quarter after six by the time I'm finished; so being rather hungry and having little else to do besides listening to my roommate's snoring, I figure I'll change and see if I can't find a nearby restaurant and have a decent breakfast.

This early in the morning, the street is practically empty, only the rare car zipping by on the gray asphalt. I wait quite a while for a cab and ask the driver to take me to the nearest coffee shop.

It's a wonderful little place in the middle of town, complete with a brick exterior and quaint, flowering teagarden. The talkative cabbie with the very heavy brogue informs me that it's one of the most popular gathering-places around. I thank him for the drive and step out into the waking sunlight.

I'm seated by a pleasant waitress at one of the charming little tables near the center of the coffee shop. The cocoa-coloured lounge seats are miraculously comfortable, and I find myself leaning back into the upholstery as soon as I sit down. I order a cup of black tea and some bacon on toast from the ornately decorated menu.

Since meeting Sherlock, I've adapted a habit of making note of my surroundings, and now I observe to myself that the floor is carpeted with an alternating pattern of autumn red and brown; the walls are paneled in gleaming russet oak; the counter is staffed by no less than nine attendants, despite the fact that it's too early in the day for the white-clothed wooden tables to be much occupied by patrons; and there's light, airy music playing almost inaudibly from speakers that I can't seem to find. Perhaps they're concealed in the potted plants breathing their luscious aroma from the corners of the room.

The food is delicious, everything steaming hot when it arrives. Being that the sun hasn't made itself fully present yet, it's significantly cooler, and I appreciate the warmth of the meal rather than feeling like I'm sweating bullets.

I gradually take notice of a tall brunette woman sitting by herself, lonely amidst a small group of breakfasting couples. A glinting pair of dangling gold earrings accentuates the auburn gleam of her round eyes.

After a few darting glances in her direction, I manage to catch her gaze. I offer her the most winning, confident smile I can manage. Her response is to raise her brow in an almost Holmes-like expression of haughtiness and immediately return to her biscuit.

I think I've lost whatever charm I previously had with women. Curiously enough, that's also been around since meeting Sherlock.

Rather reluctant to look up now, I stare down at my empty plate and into my drained cup of tea before the waitress returns with a cheque. I pay and step promptly out of the coffee shop.

My roommate's still asleep when I return to our hotel room at around 7:30, his breath sighing in and out in great, slow heaves. He's somehow managed to get one foot pressing against the floor and one arm in a contortion beneath his chest. I've no idea how anyone can be so animated in his sleep.

In the half hour before I've told myself to wake him, I ensure that we've got everything we'll need for the ceremony and the reception. I panic when I can't find Sherlock's tie – especially because I know it's going to be a painful argument to get him wearing it – but it ends up being mixed in among his shirts, and I can only blame myself for not being as careful as I should have been when unpacking.

He's still in a deep sleep by the time it's eight. His response to my first saying his name is to mutter something incomprehensible and turn further into the pillows.

"Sherlock, get up." I speak louder, give his inert shoulder a firm shake.

He blinks to life, focuses blearily on me before dragging himself up to slump over the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

"We're leaving in an hour and a half, so get ready soon," I tell him. I gently push him to his feet so that I can make the bed. "Sink's not working, so you'll probably have to use the shower to brush your teeth."

He remains completely still, as if he's been rooted tree-like in place. I glance at him from over a mound of sheets and pillows to find his lips in a strange frown and his brow furrowed as if in pain. Noticing that I'm looking at him, he murmurs, "John, I feel ill." He coughs pathetically.

"Oh, you can't possibly think I'll fall for that," I snap. "I'm a doctor, for God's sake. I don't give two shakes of a rat's tail, you are _not_ getting out of this."

He crumples limply to the floor, buries his head in his knees. "I think I'm going to faint," he breathes.

He's such a good actor that I'm coerced into going over to him and testing the temperature at the back of his neck and against his forehead. His skin is perfectly cool. "You're fine, you idiot. Get up and take a shower."

He whimpers when I pull him to his feet by the arm, drops heavily against my shoulder as if he can't support himself. He moans as I shove him back. "Cut it out, I know you're fine," I grit.

Seeing that his facade is failing to have any effect on me, his lips curl into a pout and he storms into the toilet. The door slams shut behind him.

"You need a change of clothes," I call.

I'm certain he runs every possible alternative in his mind before stepping out to pick up his suit, glaring at me all the while.

Thankfully, I hear the shower running after a few moments of delay. I take the opportunity to change into my own formalwear, which is so stiff and tight-fitting around the joints that I find it difficult to execute any extended motions.

He's apparently having the same problem. "It doesn't fit, John!" he exclaims from behind the bathroom door.

"Get used to it," I return gruffly, endeavouring to adjust my jacket with my window reflection as my only guide.

There's a bang, a sharp mutter, and then, "I don't wear ties!"

I sigh. I called it. "What's wrong with ties?"

"They're too tight around my neck. I feel like I can barely breathe when they're on."

I give up on the unevenness in my shoulders. "I think you can handle it for one day," I call to the door.

There's a moment of silence. "It's hideous, why is it red?"

I can almost see him glaring at himself in the mirror, his heavy brow furrowed in an expression of disproportionate intensity. "Sherlock, just wear it," I say.

"Do you have my phone? Where's my phone? Have you charged it?" he shouts amidst a cacophony of clattering.

If I had a table nearby, I would certainly be banging my fist into it. "No, I don't have your bloody phone, it's with the rest of your rubbish, and I swear, if you've broken anything – "

"I'm not an idiot, John, I don't break – " There's no sound, but he cuts himself off most abruptly. "I believe you'll be needing a new toothbrush."

I smack my forehead. Too defeated to shout, I ask, "What did you do that I need a new toothbrush?"

"I was using it and – "

My forehead takes another hit. "You were using my toothbrush?"

"Yes, and it fell down the sink. I removed the drain, I was… curious."

I wait a long second before I respond. "Okay," is all I come up with.

He comes blustering into the room mere seconds later, fully dressed in his night-black suit. His dark curls are still damp, tight to the angular shape of his face. He glances at me. "Mobile. Where?"

Feeling quite tired despite having only recently woken – I wonder why – I gesture to the drawer. He whips over to it, pulls out the phone and its adaptor, and promptly goes about looking for a useable outlet. "Look, you can't be typing on that during the ceremony, alright?" I say. "The reception, fine, but not in the church." I can hear the entirety of the 'I-refuse-to-submit-to-a-God-if-I-can't-see-Him-gi ving-the-orders' argument already quivering on his lips – I've heard it more than enough before – and so quickly I add, "It falls under the first tier of common courtesy, we agreed, and it'll barely be for an hour. Maybe not even that."

He gives me a look. "It's going to be so dull, though. Some proclamation that their _love_," he practically spits the word, "will be everlasting and forever pure, when in reality they'll be at it like – "

"Okay, just stop," I say. "Come on, it's one day, Sherlock. Can't you just grin and bear it? For my sake?"

He rounds on me. "You only attempt to guilt me when you've nothing else to turn to. Clearly you aren't confident that I'll make obeisance to your demands on my patience; perhaps there are reasons I shouldn't. Are you hiding something?"

I hold his accusatory gaze for a long moment before my head drops into my hands in defeat. "Sherlock, I'm not a criminal, for God's sake…"

"Yes, fine," he says, suddenly seeming distracted. He twists around in a circle in the middle of the room, blinks at the ceiling, and then nods to himself as if he's satisfied some arbitrary inquiry that happened to cross his hyperactive mind. "Well. When are we leaving?"

I tilt my head to get a look at his watch face. "Half hour," I respond.

"So we're not going to do anything in the meantime?" he snips.

"No, nothing."

Please not the violin.

As if he has some miraculous method of reading my thoughts and automatically going against them, he proceeds to the drawer where I just managed to fit his instrument and begins plucking at seemingly random notes. I'm sure there's a pattern all for it somewhere in his head, but to me it sounds like utter nonsense, and it's really very frustrating. Unable to take more than five minutes of it in my already worn-out state, I ask as politely as I can, "Might you play an actual piece, Sherlock?"

He frowns at me over what his twitching mouth tells me is a high F#. "Why would I do that?"

I take a moment to formulate my answer. "Well, it's just that it always sounds so brilliant when you do. You've got such talent, I don't know why you'd just sit there playing the same notes over and over again."

He sees right through it. I didn't know what else I expected. "You're attempting to flatter a favour out of me," he declares. "You could really do better, you know."

I sigh. "Never mind, I should have known."

He goes back to plucking the strings at random, before he suddenly seems to be seized by something and promptly breaks into a rendition of what he's taught me to recognise as Debussy's _Beau Soir_. I've no idea what puts him in the mood to play, but then again, I don't care; I'm just grateful for it.

He progresses wordlessly through a few more pieces I can't identify, though they sound familiar. "Mendelssohn," he comments out of nowhere.

"Oh, right." He's mentioned the name a number of times before. "That's your favourite, right?"

His bow comes up from the strings for a moment so that he's able to stare disapprovingly at me. "I never said that," he snips.

"Yeah, but you always play stuff from him. Especially that one that starts with the 'l' – _Lieder_, right? That must mean you like it," I reckon.

He frowns. "Not necessarily; in the case of a lesser player, it might simply be for lack of difficulty or necessity of practice."

"But you're not a lesser player," I growl, annoyed by his constant contradictions. "So I'm right."

"In this case."

"So yes."

"…Yes."

I soon find myself absentmindedly humming along to the music I recognise, which he doesn't seem to mind; rather, I can on occasion hear him harmonising to my voice. The more carefully I listen, the more I realise that he far prefers those sonorous, rippling, almost nostalgic minor chords to the more twinkling majors. I've thought now and then that we have similar taste in music, despite his classical bent; it's only now that I'm breaking the sound down that I see we're partial to the same heavier, graver tonal quality, the same invocation of reflection, of introspection, the same deeper and fuller timbre. It's an affinity I've grown to understand is unusual, as all my old mates thought I was most somber for having it; yet Sherlock seems to appreciate my exact preferences. It's probably the one thing we'll ever completely agree on. I suppose I can live with that.

I'm rather reluctant to leave by this point, but I inform my far more recalcitrant friend that we need to go now or we'll be late. He consents – or at least comes as close to consenting as is possible for his person – with much grumbling and mumbling and follows me with a conspicuously slow stride out to the street. I hail down a cab and request us to Elim Church.

The roads are heavy with traffic closer to the chapel, and so I ask the cabbie to drop us off a few blocks short of our actual destination. He apologises for the inconvenience. I tell him it's no problem at all, though Sherlock strains to disagree.

It's late enough in the day that the heat is beginning to really bear down, and both of us walk with our feet dragging a bit more than they should be. He makes some complaints as to the strength of the sun. I tell him to shut up.

After a few minutes of walking, we round a street corner, and I notice a small boy in short trousers straggling along on the sidewalk opposite. His steps are slow, his fluffy head bent fixedly on the ground. "Sherlock – " I begin with a nudge of my friend's shoulder.

"Yes, I see him. Keep moving," he orders.

I frown. "He's lost. I don't see either of his parents."

"Yes. Likely he's gotten himself – "

I cut him off by promptly crossing the street. He calls after me in irritation, but I ignore him.

"Hello," I offer the boy, respectfully keeping a wide distance from him. He turns around, and I'm immediately staring into wide blue eyes blinking in a round, open face. He gives off the very nature of honesty. "Are you lost? Where's your mum?"

He takes a small, tentative step toward me. "I don't know," he says, his voice a high, quiet, Scottish chime of bells. His innocently plump chin trembles for a moment, but he gathers himself with a quick sniff. "We were walking through a crowd, and I couldn't see to find her."

Sherlock's voice is meanwhile insistent in my ear, muttering my name in an attempt to get my attention. I shake my head at him and instead kneel down to address the child, hearing my friend pace an annoyed few steps back as I do so. "Where were you heading?" I ask him with a smile.

He thinks for a moment. "The market," he says with certainty. "She likes to bring me to the market." His tiny voice quavers, and he blinks, swallows hard in an attempt to master himself.

"Oh, God, stop _sniveling_!" Sherlock explodes. "Look at you now, what would you do if your mother was dead? Cry about it?"

"_Sherlock_!" I admonish as, after a moment of struggle for self-possession, the boy bursts into tears. "Look what you did, you sod!"

He dismisses me with a twitch of the lip as I approach the boy. "It's alright, he didn't mean it," I reassure, resting a gentle hand on his tiny, quavering shoulder. To my surprise, he throws his small arms around my neck, buries his head against my chest. It's on instinct that I return his embrace, my hands enormous compared to the size of his back.

"It's okay, calm down," I soothe, glaring at an impatient Sherlock over my shoulder. I mouth that he should be ashamed of himself, but his only response is to give his eyes a dramatic roll.

The boy fails to stifle a sob against the folds of my suit jacket. "Shush," I say tenderly. "It's alright, we'll find your mum. What's your name?"

He sniffles, breathes hard. "Andrew," he mumbles. "My name's Andrew."

I push him gently back so I can see his face. He blinks harshly, rubs his eyes. "Alright, Andrew," I say with my hand still on his shaky shoulder. "Chin up, hmm? You'll be just fine." I turn to Sherlock as the boy nods furiously. "Where is she, you bloody git?" I demand.

Sherlock breathes a heavy sigh. He saunters over to the child and wordlessly plucks a strand of hair from his shirt. I see him mouth the word 'affectionate' to himself. "It's twenty to ten, when did you lose her?" he grumbles. At the boy's fearful glance, he presses his lips together tightly and says, "Be prompt." After a moment and my death glare, he adds, "Please."

"Fifteen minutes ago," Andrew responds.

Without another word, Sherlock whips around on his heel and goes whisking down the street. I give the boy a brief word of encouragement, and we follow. He keeps close beside me.

He's still sniffling, his tiny feet scuffing along beside my far larger ones. "You alright?" I ask.

He stares straight at me, tightens his jaw as if to prove that he's not going to cry. "Yes, mister, I'm fine."

I can't help but smile at this display of fortitude, but Sherlock rather sobers my mood when he calls over his shoulder, "He's a doctor, not a mister."

I'm about to scold my friend when the boy turns to me, wide eyes widening. "You're a doctor?" he asks in awe.

I grin. "Yes, do you want to be a doctor when you grow up?"

Sherlock snorts his derision at the boy's enthused nod. I can nearly hear the insults he's formulating, and I threaten him into silence with a firm glare. Turning back to Andrew, I say, "You know that means you need to study hard in school, right?"

I chuckle quietly when he goes on to describe how he always does his work on time and how much he likes all his classes, until I catch Sherlock giving me a look bordering on disapproving. "Something to say?" I snap.

"I was only wondering if perhaps you were a bit too occupied chasing skirts and cheap ethanol to 'study hard'," he imitates.

"Oh, shut up, you were the one who skipped class all the time," I scorn.

"Yes, the police needed to know what they were doing wrong before they made any embarrassing blunders."

I'm about to retort when Andrew asks from at my side, "Are you two married?"

Oh, not this.

Sherlock actually has the decency to avoid being a greater irritation as I consider how to answer. 'No' is the best I can come up with.

The boy's great, clear eyes blink up at me. "My mummy says that two people argue a lot when they love each other because they don't want to leave problems alone."

I feel my throat clear itself of embarrassment. "Well, we… I'm sure your mum's very smart, but we're not married."

He doesn't look away. "She also says that sometimes people don't know when they love each other. Maybe you don't know yet."

I grin nervously. "That's very nice, but we don't."

"But how do you know?"

I let out an uncomfortable laugh and, hoping to drop the subject as I'm fearful of where this conversation is going, I call up to Sherlock, "I haven't seen anyone, where is she?"

A brief glance and an abrupt leap down a side road are my only response.

We emerge into some small sort of square, an antiquated, picturesque place upon which a number of little shops open to a surprisingly large group of people. Sherlock points tactlessly at a blonde woman in a shimmery sundress. "Her."

I'm about to turn to the boy but, catching sight of her, he dashes from my side up to hers. She calls his name as she pulls him into her welcoming arms, rests a thin, white hand atop his dark head. "I was so worried," I can hear her murmuring breathlessly. "Are you alright?"

He makes some response and turns to point at Sherlock and me. Taking the boy's hand, the mother walks up to us. "I can't thank you enough," she says in one of the most pleasant voices I've ever heard. "I hope it wasn't any trouble."

Giving Sherlock a warning frown before he can even open his mouth, I say smiling, "Not at all, we were glad to help out."

"Mummy, he's a doctor," Andrew says with an awed look at me.

She laughs. "Oh, really?" Her eyes – they're her son's exact eyes – raise to meet mine. "Well, I'll bet he's a very good one."

Sherlock huffs impatiently, glances at his watch face as I thank her for the compliment. Taking note of his agitation, she says, "I'm sorry, we must be keeping you." I mean to tell her we're fine when she turns to her son and says, "Aren't you going to thank the nice gentlemen?"

He nods. "Thank you." He glances at me for a moment of hesitation, and then rushes up to embrace my leg. Chuckling quietly, I ruffle his hair.

He steps over to Sherlock once he's pulled away from me. I give my roommate the most intimidating, forceful, 'don't-you-dare-do-something-awful' look I can manage, and he permits the child to hold him the same way he did me. His face flushes pink with embarrassment.

We watch them as, with matching grins, mother and son take leave of us and disappear into the rest of the crowd. I feel the slightest twinge of sorrow as the boy's tiny head is obscured from my view by a tall, corpulent businessman.

"Why aren't you a father?"

I turn to my friend, assured and proud as usual at my side, in surprise. "What?"

"You heard what I said."

Still a bit taken aback, I say, "Well, yes, but what do you mean?"

He looks at me with increasing annoyance. "Must I spell everything out for you? The very obvious implication is that you would be well-suited for the role; therefore, I'm not sure why you don't take it on."

I smile warmly. I wonder if he realises quite how kind a compliment it is, or if he even understands that it's a compliment to begin with; but whatever his comprehension of his statement is, I'm grateful for it. "Thank you, Sherlock." He frowns at me, and so I go on, "That means a lot, coming from you."

He blinks away, still obviously confused; with an affectionate shake of my head, I glance at his watch. "It's ten of. Ready to run?"

He pauses a moment, twitches a grin and, without a word, darts off back to the streets. I immediately chase after him.

We career down fourteen blocks via four side roads in the burning heat before, panting for breath, we come in view of the chapel. We're quite literally just in time, as the cross-painted doors of the old stone building are presently swinging open to permit the well-attired group of ceremony attendees inside. I turn to Sherlock, who is mopping away the sweat that's broken out on his forehead, and mutter, "Glad we made it." He glances at me, and we giggle like schoolgirls at one another's disheveled appearances before we stumble through the doors with as much poise as we can manage.

We end up in a pew near the very back. There is, of course, a very tall man in front of us, and I can't for the life of me, no matter how much I strain my neck or push my toes into the ground, see over his head. Sherlock, his otherwise ghostly face numerous shades of red and blue and green in the light streaming through the stained glass windows, is busy deducing the entire congregation in urgent, avid words beneath his breath. I have to shove his arm to get him to stop when the pastor begins speaking.

I've been to numerous weddings – my father's side of the family is rather large, and I ended up in church after church through countless ceremonies before his passing – yet I don't tire of them. I can't help but think there's something lovely about them. I've never had occasion to pay attention to it, and so I don't really know what it is; but I've thought it's the idea that the two people who kiss over the altar will never be lonely again. I know that's ridiculous, especially when Sherlock begins citing the statistics of divorce and bereavement in the United Kingdom, but I can't find a way to diminish the romance of the notion for myself.

I'm not paying attention to what's being said. The entirety of my focus is on the way Stamford's face lights when his fiancée takes her first step down the aisle, how he smiles when she takes his hand, the fact that his eyes don't leave her for a moment. She seems almost overwhelmed, glancing from Mike to the enthusiastic pastor to the encouraging bridesmaids to the fidgety best man. Over the tall man's head, I can just see her huddling closer to her fiancé every few moments, her pretty russet curls coming to rest on his shoulder. I find an almost giddy smile shaping my lips, and I quickly neutralise my expression.

Sherlock takes no interest whatsoever in the ceremony, instead restlessly twitching around to look at as many people as he can. I would tell him to stop, but I realise I should be grateful that he's not muttering his deductions to himself as he usually does. He's still tapping his fingers lightly on the pew, juggling his legs rapidly against the ground; but, if a certain incident with an inebriated Scotland Yard from a few months ago is any indication, he could be far, far worse.

The ceremony concludes with a performance from a traditional bagpipe quartet. I find it charming, though Sherlock has a stock of scathing criticism for the chapel acoustics and the dissonance between the two players who had been on the melody. "I don't understand why on earth they would decide on that particular instrument, either. It's imbecilic," are his first words out of the church.

"Shut up," are mine.

We break away from the congregation easily; I recognise perhaps two people in the crowd, some cousins of Mike's or something like that, and neither makes to approach me. Considering that I'm with Sherlock, I reason that this is a positive development. I can tell he's practically bursting at the seams with all the deductions he's been making, dying to assemble an audience. Show-off.

We weave through the nearly empty eleven o'clock streets until we chance upon a cab. As the reception isn't until two, I figure that I might as well have some dinner. Shockingly, he says that he'll eat something as well. I recall seeing a nice-looking restaurant on the way to the church, and I ask that we be taken there.

His phone is, as usual, omnipresent in the cab, and I would appreciate someone with whom to discuss the ceremony as it was lovely, but he mumbles a 'busy' or 'thinking' every time I open my mouth. I give up on him when my annoyance begins to outweigh my desire to speak.

We step across the street and through the cheery white door to find ourselves in a pleasantly ventilated little room. There can't be more than ten dining tables clustered in between the rose-flowered walls, and I see that only two of them are filled. We're seated instantly off to the left and delivered two menus with a number of agreeable offerings. We both decide on omelettes, though Sherlock seems a bit put out when he finds out that I've ordered the same thing.

"So," I say as I begin cutting into the egg, "have you ever been to a wedding?"

He glances at me. "Why do you want to know?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I just wonder what they're like for you, you've got an unusual perspective."

His ego is visibly stroked as he draws himself up taller. "I have. I come from a large and highly hedonistic family; pomp, circumstance, and ceremony at every corner."

"Oh, then no wonder you're like that." Before his indignity can counter, I continue, "Ever been to one you liked?"

His nose wrinkles in disgust. "Of course not. I've no patience for them. Always preaching those virtues of _love_ and _holiness_, when really they only serve as an excuse to indulge the basest of human instincts." He looks accusingly at me. "Certainly you don't fall prey to that nonsense."

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Well, it's… a nice idea – " I begin, almost timidly.

He cuts me off with a sharp huff. "You're more of an idiot than I first thought." My anger invoked, I'm about to interrupt him, but he glides on, "You must know that there's no such thing as love. There is lust, there is aggression, and there is disinterest. Nothing else."

I'm quieted by the absolute, unquestionable certainty with which he speaks. He really believes that what he's just said is true. I stare down at my plate, my fork picking absentmindedly at a piece of ham, as I think about his statement. "That's sad, for you," I say quietly.

He looks at me, but I don't want to hear what he's about to say, and so I force myself to brighten up and tease, "So I guess you never thought about getting married?"

"Oh, I'm engaged."

My fork drops with my jaw. "_What_?"

His lips twitch. "Yes."

"You're lying."

"No, not at all. Haven't you wondered where I've been disappearing off to? Even you could notice that."

"No, come on, you're joking."

"Not in the slightest. She's quite wonderful."

I feel my face light up with glee. "Oh, Sherlock… Sherlock, that's incredible!"

A few glances from the other patrons of the restaurant imply that my exuberance has spilled a bit too far into my voice. I force myself to quiet down, though I'm practically shaking with enthusiasm. "That's amazing, that's… why the hell didn't you tell me, you bloody git?" I give his shoulder an affectionate shove across the small table, laughing with delight. "Who is she? Have I met her? How long have you been engaged?"

He considers for a moment, looking down at his plate with a small, modest – yes, modest – grin. "About a month."

"Oh, you son of a bitch." I have to restrain the urge to get up and strangle-hug him. "Now why wouldn't you tell me?"

"She wants to keep it quiet. She suspects her family wouldn't take too kindly to me."

"Not at all!" I exclaim, leaning fervently forward. "They'd be lucky to have you. What was all that nonsense about no such thing as love? For Christ's sake, I'll bet you're head over heels for her." I have to give myself a moment to breathe. God, I never get this excited. "I'm so happy, Sherlock. You bloody charmer, you!"

His grin widens. "I appreciate the sentiment, John." He swallows a piece of his omelette and asks, "Have you ever heard of Charles Augustus Milverton?"

I blink, a bit taken aback. "No. Is he her father, do I know him?"

"No, she's his maid." I'm confused by his excitement about this statement.

"He's a master blackmailer."

My grin fades as his brightens. "No. No, you didn't do that," I say disbelievingly. He continues to smile. "You can't possibly be that heartless."

"I assure you that I'll be kind about breaking it off. Or, rather, George Harris will."

My jaw hardens. "You tricked a poor, innocent girl into thinking that you're going to marry her – under a false identity, too – so you can get information about a blackmailer off of her and then dump her completely." Incredulous, I ask, "How long have you been seeing her?"

"Three months, she's been quite desperate to tie the knot." He steeples his hands beneath his chin, having finished off his omelette. His brow raises. "Don't shout, you're going to draw attention – "

"You are the coldest, cruelest – you absolute dick, I can't believe you." He opens his mouth to interrupt, but I leap in, "She is sitting there, right now I bet, thinking about your bloody cheekboned mug – do you even realise – can you even comprehend – " I'm so angry that I can't even form a complete sentence. The best I can come up with is, "You are a sod, you know that?"

His response is a quiet chuckle. He goes on to say something else, but I refuse to speak to him, my fork stabbing into my plate with fury. I have to resist the impulse to stab myself when he asks, with perfect cluelessness, "Are you angry?"

When I don't respond, he continues, "I don't understand why. I'm not doing anything to you." There's a pause. "You're disappointed that a man you consider to be your intimate has such a lack of morality. It reflects badly on you."

I explode. "No, you – !" I cut myself off and drop my voice before I say something that might threaten to get me kicked out. "I don't care how it looks on me, what I care is that there is some poor girl out there who is in love with you – I can't fathom why – and is about to have her heart broken."

He looks closely at me. "I'm not leaving her with nothing."

"Oh, really?" I challenge. "How are you going to make up for that, hmm? For killing her feelings? Do you know how painful that's going to be?"

He clears his throat, rights his shoulders. "I'm imparting a large sum of money to her."

I laugh in his face. "You think that's going to make her feel any better?"

He sighs. "If you really must know, I'm telling her – and I quote – that it's become my fate to travel the world, and it isn't in the stars that we're meant to remain together. I'll write to her at least once a month. She's of the breed that would find that sort of thing romantic."

I lean back in my chair, the edge removed from my rage. "I swear, if you hurt her…" I pause for a moment, trying to calm my indignity. "Where did you get the money, anyway?"

"The Treasury. I used Mycroft's identification."

I smack my forehead.

As we're leaving the restaurant, I make him swear, twice, that he's not going to do something awful to her, and that if he does and I find out about it, I'm going to beat an apology out of him. This threat elicits a rather dubious look from him, and I step lightly on his left foot to remind him of our little disagreement on the train yesterday. He winces and frowns sulkily at me.

We've still got about two hours before the reception. I tell Sherlock that I'd like to see Craigievar Castle while we're here. He mutters something about not understanding why I care to look at a pile of well-organised stones, but he doesn't really seem to care where we go as long as he's got a network connection.

Of course, as soon as we've located a cab, a thin drizzle picks up along the streets. Of course, we end up going nowhere but back to the hotel, and of course, the result is that I have to sit through a harried combination of string-plucking on the bed and chemical-sizzling on the floor. My attempts to read a catalogue are all for naught when he begins talking to himself. And it's rare that he does that, too. I don't understand how any one person's lack of luck can have Sherlock Holmes at his most unfavourable during the time he's sharing a room with said luckless.

Just as I'm about to tell him we need to get ready to leave, he inhales sharply and throws his hands back from his equipment. I go to ask him what's wrong when I see a sliver of blood trickling down one of his white palms.

I'm kneeling at his side in an instant. "You alright?" I grab his arm as he quickly makes to move. There's a sharp scarlet slit along the line of his thumb.

"Yes, I'm fine." He tugs his hand away from me, and I have to grip him tighter to hold him still. "John, it's barely bleeding, it's fine."

I glance down at his tools to notice it's his scalpel that's been stained. "Look, I don't even want to think where that thing's been," I say, pointing at it, "and I don't want you getting infected, so just hang on a second." I leave him glaring at me to fetch the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls and plasters from the sink cabinet. And I thought I was being overly cautious for bringing them. I wonder if there's such a thing as too much caution when it comes to him. I'm beginning to doubt it.

He's sitting on the bed when I come back in, and he rolls his eyes when he sees what I'm holding. "Don't start," I warn as I reclaim his wrist.

"I'm _fine_." He pulls away from me. God, he's never once listened to me at first command.

"Sherlock, this will take two seconds if you're not a prig," I say calmly as I dab the alcohol onto the cotton.

"It would take less time if you didn't do this at all." He tugs again. Immensely annoyed by this point, I slap his ornery fingers.

"What was that for?" he exclaims.

"Stop that!" I lift my eyes from the cotton to give him a long, stern glare. He pouts as I gently twist his hand back and dab the alcohol onto the cut.

His fingers twitch, and I hear a quiet grunt escape his throat. I glance at him. "Aw, does it sting?" I ask, my voice practically dripping with sarcasm.

"No, it's simply that the last time I was _doted_ on, my mother was doing the doting."

I jab the cotton into his scratch in response. He winces and, for once, shuts his mouth.

Once I'm convinced the wound is clean, I gently smooth one of the plasters over his broken skin. "There, see? That could've been a lot quicker, but of course you've got to go and be an arse about it all."

He huffs. "Well, if you keep talking, we're going to be late."

I blink and twist my head to look at his watch. It's a quarter of two.

I will never understand how we run late for everything.


	4. Day Two Noon: The Reception from Hell

AN: Stephanie, if you're reading this… you should get an account on this site. (And I got your other reviews, by the way.)

The receiving line is down to the last twenty people by the time we arrive through the ballroom entrance.

I shove Sherlock, who is already occupied staring uncomfortably at everyone – evidently deciding where they've all had dinner, as I hear him mutter something about breadcrumbs and Olive Garden – into line and stand as inconspicuously as possible, my hands clasped loosely in front of me. After a moment or two of glancing over at the bride, the groom, and the attendants, I decide that they've taken no notice of our tardiness and allow my shoulders to relax.

A few heads in front of us is a strange pair, a young man and a young woman speaking in urgent, rapid undertones. He's gesticulating wildly, drawing what look to be words in the air, and she's raising her hand to interrupt him and trace figures onto her palm. They hurry through the greeting as quickly as possible and immediately move off to some distant corner of the room.

"Delegates to NATO," Sherlock grumbles in response to my unasked question. "It was a map she was sketching out, France if I'm up on my geography, and he wrote letters from 'Paris' and then 'Antwerp' in the air. Notice how they spoke, as if they're much used to leaning clandestinely toward one another. Why? One might assume it's the sort of habit those who frequently handle secrets – perhaps secret lovers, agents, detectives, me – adopt, but then there is the robotic efficiency of their greeting and their swift departure to that wall over there; clearly they're used to being herded inconspicuously in and out of rooms full of strangers, and they've been subjected to the necessity of exchanging words quietly, perhaps to avoid interrupting the drone of some unfamiliar speaker. Observe also that he's just back from the airport, his watch is an hour ahead as it would be if he had sojourned in Belgium – where Antwerp is, _are_ you following, John – and she must have come with him being that they had to have arrived at together to be at the same place, side-by-side no less, in line. His forgetfulness in resetting the watch implies that he's acclimatised to recurrent air travel. After taking into account the cost of their formalwear, what's a high-paying job that involves many strangers, frequent travel, speech hushed to avoid interruption, and quick entrance and exit? A diplomat of some sort. I assume NATO as the news reports they've had a meeting in Belgium over the past week." His chin lifts in poorly restrained pride as he turns to look at me. "Simple, no?"

As usual, I find myself conflicted as to whether I should be amazed by his brilliance or annoyed by his vanity.

We progress quickly through the greetings. I see Sherlock taking note of every tiny motion the couple and the attendants make, and I'm relieved when he receives the introductions coldly yet tolerantly. I congratulate Stamford briefly and walk with Sherlock to search for our seats.

We end up in the back of the room, thankfully – for Sherlock and thus for me – near the small orchestra that's been hired to perform. Occupying the other four seats are, to my surprise, the NATO delegates, a lithe blonde girl, and a tall man I assume to be her companion rather than her date. I say a rather uncomfortable hello to everyone present as my roommate, after a quick observational scan, clicks open his phone. He told me on the way over that Lestrade had found something for him that could be done entirely remotely, and that it should be interesting enough to occupy his attention for at least two hours. Thank God.

The blonde girl gives me some brief platitude in response, for which I'm grateful, and introduces herself as Abilene and her companion, whom I immediately understand is painfully shy, as George. The diplomats are exceptionally engrossed in their conversation and barely take the time to smile briefly at me before they return to their discourse.

I mean to incite some polite exchange, but Abilene seems to be the only candidate for speech, and she's busy greeting practically everyone who walks by the table. I glance over at Sherlock, praying he's not incensed by the volume of people nearby, but he's completely absorbed in whatever case he's in the middle of solving. I wonder if he even notices what's going on around him.

"No, _Austria_!"

I've been doing my best not to eavesdrop on the animated conversation between the two delegates, but the man's sudden shout inevitably drags my attention over to them. I give up trying not to listen when their discussion begins to increase in volume.

"Austria? I was talking to Zarbell two weeks ago and he said there was nothing in Austria," the woman says with evident consternation, one autumn-brown hand coming to rest lightly over her fuchsia-stained lips.

"Yeah, but you see," the man begins in a rolling brogue, "he thought we could get them in accord with the bloke from Belgium, but little did anyone know that the facility they were after is actually owned by the Vienna government."

"What about Narlikov?"

"Who?"

"From Russia, who they wanted to talk to them from the other time."

I may be able to hear what they're saying, but it would take a Sherlock Holmes to understand a word of it. Funnily enough, his name works well as a term. I wonder if I could make money off of that. I could sell the idea to the BBC. Maybe they could make a programme out of it.

Or… have they already?

Amidst the nonsensical back-and-forth of the two delegates and Abilene's exchange of welcome with the entire ballroom population, I notice George. His head is bent toward the table as if in an attempt to avoid attention, but every now and then, I see his eyes lifting and then quickly dropping again. Curious, I covertly follow the line of his vision. It goes through the flowers on the table, my friend's averted head behind the flowers, the crowd behind his head, and the mahogany-paneled walls behind the crowd. There's nothing of interest, as far as I can see; the only person who isn't nondescript among a mound of tulle and velvet is Sherlock –

Oh.

_Oh_.

My revelation comes a split second before Sherlock, very suddenly, snaps his head up from his phone. He glances down at his own suit, at mine, and then at George's. It takes me a moment to realise that George is the only one of us with a handkerchief.

I lean forward with a rapid whisper of my friend's name, praying that I'm in time to stop him, but he promptly leans across the table and, with a flair that could be easily misinterpreted as flirtatious, plucks the tissue from the other man's suit pocket. A muttered 'borrowing this' is his only explanation. He immediately proceeds to fold and unfold the cloth, his eyes darting from it to his mobile screen.

I don't know whether to reprimand my roommate's disrespect or assuage my neighbour's discomfort, as he's now quite red in the face and a tad breathless. In my indecision, I glance back and forth between them in a way that must appear comical to any outside observer.

I'm saved from having to do anything when, quite suddenly, there's an earsplitting ring that hisses out of the ceiling speakers. The tail end of a condemning swear is broadcast to the entire assembly as the conductor adjusts the microphone near the center of the ballroom.

After a brief apology, he announces that the first dance is about to begin. I clap along with the rest of the assembly as Sherlock, ever the critic, raises his head to listen to the instrumentalists tune. "Second string is ten cents sharp," he snips at the nearest violinist.

She glances at him with a frown. "Really, I had no idea, thanks." Her sarcasm is impressive.

Stamford and his wife – Abilene's exchanges remind me that her name is Sophie – take the floor amidst the soft swelling of the orchestra. Her embroidered pearly skirts rustle quietly against the ground, their shuffling a breeze dusting through the forest that the music grows. He moves, tall and quiet, with her, his attention consumed by her, his eyes locked on her; and all I can think is how well their hands seem to fit together. Hers are shapely where his are blunt; hers are elegant and artful where his are heavy and tactless; hers are tiny, almost fragile, where his are large, almost brawny; and yet they match like the pieces of some lifetime puzzle, every contrast interlocking to form some grand overall parallel. I don't know how much I believe in fate, but I can't fathom it could be by accident that two hands can join like that.

I glance at Sherlock as he inhales in preparation of speech. "The song choice is poor," is all that he has to say. I rest my face in one hand.

Other couples are invited to dance after the first musical stanza, and the wooden floor is soon lost among a maze of heels. Abilene is one of the initial brave souls to go up, cheerfully entreating a small group of single women near the back of the room to join her after George refuses to move. Now that the group has mixed itself up, the delegates also retreat to a quieter corner to continue their discussion; the last I heard, someone named Al Bern was almost killed in Sarajevo and there's some tech lab in Tokyo that no one has been able to rent out. I'm more concerned with the fact that I'm now uncomfortably sandwiched between the still-tense George and my ever-rude companion. It's now more than ever that I wish I had a girlfriend.

The situation is made even more awkward when Sherlock, without a word, leaps to his feet and stalks over to the other side of the room, tripping at least two people dancing on the crowded floor. I place my head in my hands, partly out of irritation and partly to avoid having to look at the only other person remaining at the table. Of course, I have to look up eventually, and when I do, George is gazing silently at the detective doing God-knows-what with the wall. I think he's got a tape measure. I can't fathom why. Or from where he's produced it.

I very much fear what he'd say if George even once attempted to speak to him. Certainly he'd notice, and most definitely, he'd disparage. I don't want to do it – I really don't – but I gather myself and glance over in my neighbour's direction.

"I don't mean to be rude," I say, smiling as pleasantly as I can, "but he's a pretty poor conversationalist – not the best to talk to."

He jumps, his gangly shoulders tautening up around his white neck. He's flustered when he glances over at me, a sharp tinge of crimson dusting across his owlish face. "Oh, I, um," he stumbles, "I didn't – I mean that I – "

"It's fine," I interrupt, pitying his embarrassment, "it's him, not you. He's really very irritating, I was hoping to spare you the pain of speaking to him." I offer a brief chuckle to demonstrate that I'm making a joke, but he twitches nervously and stares down at his feet. And I thought Sherlock was the one who's bad with people.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he blinks in my direction. The line of his mouth tightens in sudden uneasiness as his eyes widen. "Oh, I'm sorry, I had no idea that you and he – "

"We're not," I say quickly. That's twice in one day now. "It's just that he has no tact, I don't want him acting like a bigger git than he already is."

That actually coaxes a smile from him. "Um, what's he… doing?" he asks quietly.

I look over my shoulder to see my friend – of course, _my_ friend – typing rapidly on his mobile, George's handkerchief in his free hand and his foot marking a spot on the wall where the tape measure ends. He's attracted the confused glances of the very few people – not more than three on that side of the room – not absorbed in the dancing.

"I've no idea," I respond. "Honestly, as long as he's not talking to anyone or burning anything, I'm fine."

"Burning anything?" George asks with a bemused grin. It's a nervous sort of expression, but at least it's something.

"Yeah, he does these experiments at home." I realise what I've said and quickly add, "We went in on a flatshare; neither of us could afford the rooms alone."

"Oh. Well, that doesn't sound very fun to live with."

I smile. "Yeah, you'd think; and he's a constant pain in the arse, but… he's alright." This being said as he lifts his foot to release the tape measure, in the middle of a wedding reception.

"You must be very patient, then," George offers. He grins more comfortably than before when I turn to look at him. I modestly dismiss the compliment.

We exchange a few more words now that the ice has been broken. I find that I'm having a better time than I initially thought possible.

The delegates bluster back to their seats sometime after the father-daughter dance, this time going back and forth about what some Vitowitz had taken issue with concerning the proposal of a certain Phillip Tyne at the conference in Berlin two months ago. Sherlock returns soon after they do, handing George his handkerchief to my surprise, and immediately buries his head back in his phone.

It isn't another two minutes before he drops the mobile and declares, with leisurely authority, "Bored."

I frown. "What about –?"

"I'm done with it, it was so extraordinarily simple that Lestrade must have been ill not to see the solution," he snips.

"So you don't have anything to do." I can already feel the complaints starting. "Great."

He turns to me, observes my face closely. "Sarcasm," he offers.

I grin tightly in response.

The orchestra takes a brief pause as the banquet table is first opened. Sherlock immediately turns to the nearest violinist and makes some comment to her under his breath. I see her nostrils flare in anger before she says, "I think I know what I'm doing, thank you."

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but I lean amicably forward and clap his shoulder in the hope of shutting him up. "How many times do I need to tell you about you and your jokes?" I chuckle, shoving him far too harshly to be received as friendly. He mutters 'jokes?' to me as I turn to the musician and say with the prayer that I don't sound too jovial to be uncomfortable, "He thinks he's funny."

"I really don't," he says with perfect confusion.

I laugh, shove him far too roughly again. "Good one," I comment. I hear the slightest titter from George as the violinist smiles with only a tinge of annoyance. Sherlock just looks perplexed.

I do my best to ignore my friend's agitated fidgeting as he tries in vain to find something to occupy himself. His presence, gone for about an hour, is now back with a vengeance, tossing a heavy oppressiveness over the entirety of the table. Even the two delegates pause their debate on the Syrian dilemma to glance over at him.

I half-consider getting something to eat – the banquet table is practically groaning under the weight of piles and piles of delicious-looking fare – but I've already had dinner, and I hate feeling full, so I simply stare at my hands clasped in my lap and try to overlook the uncomfortable silence Sherlock has brought with him.

"You're not eating because you'd feel gluttonous otherwise," he interjects suddenly.

As usual, I have no idea how he knows anything; but I incline my chin and say, "I don't like being full."

He sighs. "The aversion to that comes from a subconscious desire to 'save face' to avoid the judgement of others; your self-value lies in your adherence to your concept of virtue – "

"Yeah, okay, shut up," I cut in before he starts ranting. I find it's his persistence, not his insulting psychology, that angers me. I have far too much trouble finding fault with him for my own good; but then, I'm alright with that.

The speakers blare again, and I figure they're starting a speech. The attention of the entire room turns to the best man raising the microphone in the middle of the room to match his height, which I estimate to be six-and-a-half feet. Damn him.

I recall him having been sort of twitchy at the ceremony, and this agitation only seems to have increased now that he's the center of focus. He starts off with what must be an embarrassing 'um' and proceeds to fidget through the rest of his speech.

Almost as if in fear of being unable to keep up, Sherlock launches out on his own sermon under his breath, constructing for my listening pleasure the speaker's entire life story. He goes from describing the man's obsessive-compulsive disorder to how he lives alone with two – no, three, he missed the tan hair at first glance – cats to his dull job as a dental assistant. He turns to me with a grin after making some comment on the speaker's fascination with geography, "certainly the dullest of the disciplines, if it may be called that". I sigh pointedly, leading him to frown at my apparent lack of humour. He sulks throughout the rest of the speech. Like a bloody child.

Once we've saluted the best man and the orchestra resumes its playing – this time it's the oboist who's flat, possibly because he's using too loose an embouchure – I decide that I'm hungry and figure I'll find something to eat. I drag Sherlock along with me, because God knows he'd be off on everyone in a seven-foot radius if I let him alone.

Surprisingly, he doesn't have much criticism for the food, other than that there's simply too much of it and he doesn't believe there's a mathematical proportion that could justify its volume to that of the invitees.

"I thought you deleted your maths," I comment, taking some slices of turkey from the heaping plate.

He snorts. "Arithmetic is a constant factor in crime, John, whether it be in the measurements of a room or in the trajectory of a bullet. Apparently I've overestimated you, I assumed you were at least intelligent enough to be aware of that."

I draw a deep breath. "Can we lay off on the insults, maybe? You've been at it all day."

"Isn't that the usual procedure of – ?"

He cuts off in a grunt as he goes stumbling into the woman walking backwards as she parts from her large group of friends. He mutters a brief apology as I shake my head at his lack of poise –

Sophie.

Of all the people he could have chosen to knock into, it had to be the bride.

I pray fervently that he's not going to say something stupid as she tells him it's no problem, a sunny smile adorning her face. Already noticing my roommate's eyes flickering over her hands, her dress, her jewelry, I quickly make to steer him away with some distracted comment about the salad. Yet there's a tender tremble of fingers on my arm, and I'm met with the glowing eyes of the bride whom I fear will soon realise she's too kind for her own good. "I'm sorry, you're Dr Watson, yes? And Mr Holmes?" She takes our hands and shakes them gently. "That blog of yours is really popular," she says, turning to me, and I see how wonderfully bright her eyes are. "And how smart you are, Mr Holmes!"

He frowns at her giggling with delight. "_Smart_?" He practically spits the word.

I rush to interject, but she clasps his right hand in both of hers. He leans away from her. "What's most amazing is how you read people, I think. I mean, the cases too, of course, but those… deductions, right? It's just so wonderful how you can do that anytime, or with anyone; it's like knowing the answers without ever having studied!"

I smile quickly, sensing that the magnitude of the fallout is only due to increase with time as Sherlock tries less subtly to wrest his hand back. Completely oblivious to his struggle, she goes on, "Could you do it now? On me?"

Oh, God.

I think as quickly as I can. I just know he's going to say something awful, it's basically a given. And I know that I need to find a way to keep him from saying anything at all, and yet she's just asked him to and it'd be both strange and rude for me to go against her request; and yet I know he's gotten every detail about her compounded and computerised up in that head of his and he's about to come out with some condemning analysis, but I can't say anything because she –

"You've been working at a florist's boutique for years."

I wait. He says nothing else, simply coughs as an excuse to raise his entrapped hand to his mouth.

"That's amazing!" she cries. "How on earth can you tell?"

"Your hands, mostly, they're always the most instructive point; though you've scrubbed them quite thoroughly, I still see traces of dirt beneath the left thumbnail. Also, your arms are a shade darker than your wrists, implying that you wear gloves frequently when outside. There are few occupations that would warrant the covering of the hands while out of doors; I might suggest botanist or biologist, but then there would be the marks of regular writing calloused on your thumb. If neither of those, then by process of elimination you're some sort of florist."

"You're exactly right," she says admiringly as I stare dumbfounded at him. "It all sounds so simple when you explain it, but never in a million years could I do it myself."

"Well, it does require quite a deal of intellect." He attempts a smile.

She's about to say something else, but a woman I recognise as one of the bridesmaids taps her lightly on the shoulder and motions toward a group in the back of the room. She nods and turns back to us with that same glowing face. "I'm terribly sorry, but I have to see what my brother's gotten himself into. It's been a pleasure."

"All ours," I ensure quickly. I've barely gotten the words out before she's being whisked away in a mound of tulle and lace.

Sherlock snorts to himself as soon as she's out of earshot. "What does she think I am, the personal entertainment? That was _insulting_," he growls.

I look closely at him. "You knew something else," I say.

"Something? More than something, look at the difference in the quality of her jewelry, her mother doesn't approve of her husband, and he's out of work." His brow is inclined, his lips are curled in an expression of laughing contempt, but…

"You didn't say any of that to her."

He looks at me, inhales a deep breath. "No." He says the word with deliberate slowness.

"Why not?"

I can tell I've caught him off-guard when he tilts his chin to the side. It takes him a millisecond too long to answer. "There was no reason to."

I duck my head to hide a smile. "If you say so."

"What?" He must hear something in my voice, as his eyes are accusing me when I look back up.

"Nothing. Nothing at all." His brow furrows in confusion when I grin at him. I avoid his prodding questions thrice more before he gives up and resorts to sulking at me.

These tiniest glimpses of a heart, and he doesn't even notice. He, of all people, doesn't notice.

Of course, my rush of affection for him is almost immediately dammed when he comments that I might not want to pile my plate so high as I've already been gaining weight – and then that I don't do enough exercising to maintain my physical composition – and then that I'm "actually somewhat unattractive, but don't worry about it". I kindly suggest that he piss off. And what the hell does he mean, unattractive, I'm perfectly decent-looking, I think. I hope – oh, I can't stand it when he does this.

My mood is further crushed when he insults the poor violinist as soon as we're again seated at the table. I can't do anything to prevent an argument from breaking out between them over whether one of the strings on the instrument is too thin to produce a quality sound. I don't even know why it matters, it all sounds the same to me.

He goes on to state that he'd like to vomit during the bouquet-tossing, and that there's absolutely no reason a piano solo was needed during the proceedings and, besides, Chopin's "Nocturne in C# Minor" is far too sulky – yes, he thinks he of all people has gained the right to call something sulky – a choice for this kind of event, and then he's moaning and groaning all through the toasts and glass-clinking and coming forth with all these philosophical interrogations – I'd prefer to call them criticisms – and generally being a pain in my ass. To top it all off, he pelts _me_ with rice to get revenge for forcing him to partake in the event.

The result of all this is that I end up feeling rather frustrated, incredibly tired, and obscenely thirsty.

After our goodbyes have been said with as much brevity as humanly possible and the newly wedded couple has left the ballroom, Sherlock and I kick along the street for a bit to avoid the crowds and hail a cab three blocks down. I decide we're going to the nearest pub.

"Why are we going to a pub?" Sherlock demands before I've even had the chance to get seated.

I glance over at his intense countenance before I answer, "Because of you."

"What? No, that doesn't make sense, I don't want to go." He blinks uncomprehendingly.

I sigh. "And that's why I do."

He huffs. Prig.

We end up in this quaint little place around eight o' clock, when the blaze of the sun is just beginning to give way to a purple flush. I find the counter immediately, collapse onto one of the plain barstools as my roommate goes off to find the toilet. I decide not to waste any time and request a shot of vodka.

I'm dulled without delay by the first burn of the liquid down my throat. I'm almost feeling happy by the second.

It takes me a few moments to realise that I haven't brought my wallet with me, and I fear that I won't be able to pay; but I figure that Sherlock's probably got his, and I don't really feel bad taking his money. I've done it plenty of times before, and it's not like he even cares about it in the first place.

I allow myself to focus on nothing as my mind begins to fog up. I think briefly that it was a nice ceremony and that I hope Stamford and Sophie will be happy, and then that they're a lovely pair, and then that the counter must be made of some very high-quality wood.

"Drowning your sorrows?"

I glance lazily over my shoulder to find Sherlock framed black against the autumnal glow of the pub lighting. He slinks into the stool next to mine and rather violently pulls his tie off, tossing it onto the counter with relish. I find myself admiring the way its scarlet melts into the burnish of the wood, and consider that it might not be a good sign that I'm so easily fixated. I also consider that I don't really care. "Yeah, joining me?"

He shrugs in what I take to be an affirmative gesture. I wave the barman down and ask for another shot. He returns with the glass and sets it down in front of Sherlock.

"You're paying for both of us, by the way," I say before he's able to down the shimmering whitish liquid. "I didn't bring my wallet."

He nods and sips calmly at the liquor. One long finger dusts across his lips to remove the remnants of the alcohol. I give him a bizarre look, and he returns the expression with an equal display of puzzlement. "How are you drinking that?" I ask him.

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You have to – you can't just – " I understand that I'm having some trouble forming complete sentences. I gather myself in a brief moment and go on, "You have to get it all down at once. That's the only way it works." I inhale the glass in front of me in demonstration.

He blinks. "Oh. Why?"

I lean back with the heaviest sigh I can muster. "Because you don't get tipsy like that."

He frowns thoughtfully, his translucent, metallic eyes staring into his glass. "Is it my goal to inebriate myself?" he inquires.

I weigh the question for an unusually long moment. "Well, no, but it's relaxing, if you're a bit…" I gesture vaguely; he certainly knows what I mean. I'm not sure if I do, though.

"I'm not tense," he counters.

"You're always tense."

He thinks for a moment; then it's as if he comes to some kind of decision, and he downs the alcohol in one gulp. As soon as his throat contracts, his shoulders jolt up and I hear his breath catch in his lungs. He slams the glass down, his free hand rushing to cover his mouth as he chokes on the burning liquor. He manages to swallow after a moment, blinking tears from his eyes as he works to settle himself.

I break into a chuckle as he clears his throat in an attempt to retain some semblance of his dignity. "Alright there?" I feel I'm being cruel when he gives me a reproachful frown, but it's so rare that I'm in any position of power over him that I figure I've earned the right to take advantage of this moment. "Some trouble holding your liquor?"

"No, it's just a bit… strong… for my tastes," he refutes, still swallowing the previous remnants.

I grin mockingly at him. "Yeah, right." I summon another round for the both of us. Brow furrowed in determination, he goes to toss the glass back, but I stop him with a raised pointer finger. "Don't do it again, you're going to make yourself vomit."

He scorns me with a curl of his lip and, before I can interject again, swallows the shot. The line of his back tightens as his knuckles go white against the countertop, and for a moment, I fear he's going to choke up the contents of his stomach; but then he leans back with sudden calm, his neck draping comfortably over his shoulder.

I grin. "See, relaxing."

"Hmm." He stares rather intently at his hands, which lie flat on the wood. I can already see the languidness overtaking his usually precise movements. I suppose his tolerance is pretty minimal, being that he rarely drinks. "This is… what is this?" He clinks an unscrubbed nail against my glass, which I proceed to empty.

"Smirnoff, it's pretty common," I respond. It's only after I speak that I realise his previous words sounded a bit slurred.

"Oh. Can we…?" He trails off as the barman comes over to deliver us another round. "I've been meant… meaning to make a study of the different varieties of alcohol. A preferred beverage can be a discerning point of identification. Though I haven't gotten around to it. The study, I mean."

I nod my understanding as he raises his drink to his lips. It's with minimal discomfort this time that he downs the shot, and I hear him sigh contentedly as he returns the glass to the counter.

"Getting used to it?" I ask after I swallow my own glass.

He nods vaguely, resting his reddening face in one hand. I have to blink a few times to convince myself that we're not on a boat when it appears that he's swaying. "You know what, I don't think I've ever seen you pissed."

He gives me a disapproving look. "I'm not _pissed_," he contests, though his increasingly prominent slur is beginning to suggest otherwise, "just a bit… woozy."

I raise my brow in a gesture of acquiescence. "Whatever you say." I'm content all the sudden, and I've neither the mood nor the edge to argue with him. I figure he must feel quite the same when he stifles a yawn in his palm rather than pursuing the issue.

We indulge in another round – I realise, with slight alarm, that I don't know what number I'm on – and remain quiet, Sherlock resting his chin on his elbows folded neatly upon the counter. His cheeks and ears are flushed by this point, the colouration made all the more prominent in comparison with his otherwise bone-white skin. I'm glad to see him looking so pleasantly unwound, with his eyelids sagging and his breath slow.

I think on that, utilising as much focus as my foggy mind allows. I was joking when I said that he's always tense, but I'm now considering that there's more truth to that than I thought. It's rare that he's at rest. He's up all hours of the night, working whenever he can help it, never stopping for a necessity as trivial to him as sleep. Even when he doesn't have a case, it's the violin, it's the chemicals, it's the revolver, always something to feed his insatiable intellect. And I'm certain he's overjoyed when he's able to keep himself occupied, but then there's always that… _tightness_ to him. That sort of painful self-domination that doesn't allow him a moment's pause. Other than now, I can't recall a time I've seen the stress so relieved from his rigid shoulders. It's as if he's constantly battling some internal need to stop, to breathe, to sleep – like he refuses to allow himself to come to peace.

He must feel so tired, so often.

"I'm glad we came out," I say into the silence.

I smile gently as he turns to face me. "You're gl – oh." He nods to himself. "That we are…" he presses a finger to the counter, "here."

I try not to laugh at the effects of his very obvious intoxication. "You're a bad drinker."

"No, no I'm…" He frowns as his drifting eyes focus on the barman. "Could we get another round?" he says, a bit too loudly considering the short distance.

"Sherlock, you might want to stop soon," I caution, watching him watching nothing.

He frowns. "I'm fine."

"Really?" I ask as his hand wavers out for his recently filled glass. I think for a moment. "Where was I during the afternoon the day before yesterday?" He had made the deduction, previously, that I was out at Tesco.

He pauses with his drink halfway to his mouth to stare into the air. After a moment, he shakes his head, turns to me, and asks, "What?"

I remove the glass from his slow-to-resist fingers. "I think that's enough for you," I say.

His expression sours into a pout. "No, you've had at least… two… more than I have."

"Yes, but you've got less tolerance. I'm still – " I almost forget what I'm saying, "still speaking in complete sentences." Well, the statement still holds.

"I'm alright," he insists. I don't have the strength to stop him as he takes his glass back.

"Fine, but you're going to feel it in the morning," I warn. He ignores me and gulps the liquor down. I follow him a few moments later. I suppose I should be more concerned – but really, I can't see the harm if it's just this once.

There's still a part of me that knows I'm going to regret this.

My vision is going a bit wonky two rounds later, but luckily I've still got enough inhibition to know that I'm really going to suffer tomorrow if I progress any further. I turn my glass over on a napkin and expect Sherlock to do the same. He instead waves the barman over and proceeds to down another shot. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look that particular shade of crimson. "Sherlock, look, you…" I trail off when he turns, swaying, to face me. He blinks at me for a moment before dropping his head on his arm and laughing quietly. "Are you alright, there?" I offer.

It takes him far too long to recover himself, and even then his gaze lolls about my face uncomprehendingly. "I think I'm drunk, John." His head flops heavily onto the counter, his arm falling to swing at his side as he begins giggling again. "I think… don't think… that I've been. Before." He nods to himself in affirmation.

"Sherlock?"

I'm sitting on his right, but he takes a long look at the empty seat at his left before he's able to face me. "Mm?" His lips quiver as he restrains another bout of laughter. I certainly never thought he'd be a happy drunk.

I raise my hand and hold up two fingers. "Which number is this?" I ask him, looking closely at his unfocused eyes.

He leans back, blinks a few times as if something is clouding his vision. "Uh… three." He speaks with complete affirmation.

"Okay, we're going home."

He leans back as if about to ask me why and, failing to recall that he's on a stool without a support, very nearly topples over. One pale arm lashes out for the counter, and I grab his wrist before he ends up on the floor. "You alright?" I ask quickly.

He blinks at me, once, twice, before he explodes into laughter. I'm taken aback. It's the richest, fullest, roundest laugh I've ever heard, abundant with the most innocent of delights. It's a kind of sound that tickles the sternness in his brow and dances the stiffness from his back and kisses the redness on his cheeks. He's bloody giddy. Of course, he's shitfaced as anything, but I've nothing to do but add my own voice to his joyous chorus.

It's only when a few other patrons toss amused glances in our direction and the barman sighs and makes as if to ask us out that I grab hold of my friend's shoulder and gently hoist him to his wavering feet. He snorts every time he trips over his own shoes which, I observe with some slight guilt, is quite often. I remove his wallet from his jacket pocket and pay our fee before carefully escorting him out of the pub.

He's unable to walk without me supporting him, and even then he's stumbling over himself and knocking into my side and stepping on my feet. I carefully shove him into the first cab we see. He drops weightlessly into the far seat, his flushed face purplish in the path of the nighttime streetlights. Dizzily, his head lolls against the window and his eyelids sink closed.

"John." He waves vaguely, as if to get my attention. "Where are we going, John?"

I try not to grin. "Back to the hotel, I just said so."

"Hot – oh, because… yes." A quiet laugh twinkles from his throat. "I didn't know we – where we were. Are."

He blusters on like this for most of the ride. The combination of the slur in his speech and the disorder of his dialogue – along with his boisterous interjections of inexplicable mirth – yields the effect that I can't understand a word he's saying. Instead, most of my washed-away focus is spent on keeping from laughing at him in this state.

When we're a few blocks away from the hotel, he quiets down. It's a very sudden stop in the middle of a comment on the sidewalk. He's half asleep by the time I'm opening the cab door, and of course, I end up having to drag him dead-weight up to his feet. I keep a tight hold of his arm as I guide him inside; he would be falling all over himself if I didn't. "John?" he murmurs suddenly.

"Hmm?" I push against his chest as he trips and goes swinging forward.

"John, I'm tired." His head lolls onto my shoulder. "Will you carry me?"

I think he's joking, but his solemn gray eyes are perfectly serious, albeit a tad pleading, when I turn to look at him. "No."

He drops more of his weight against me as if in punishment. I wonder how I keep from hating him.

I coax him through the door to our room – admittedly I'm a bit embarrassed referring to it as that – and carefully set him down atop the bed. He collapses gracefully upon the pillows, chuckles again at whatever it is he finds amusing about my face, and curls himself up into a tight ball. He's asleep by the time I've changed into my pyjamas. Still in his suit, nonetheless.

Smiling softly, I pull the covers out from beneath his weight and settle them over his shoulders. He doesn't even budge when I lay down next to him.

I fall asleep to the quiet sound of his tranquil breathing.


	5. Day Three: The Return Trip of Death

Perhaps I had a bit too much to drink last night.

I wake up to a headache that I can already tell will persist relentlessly throughout the day and slight, begrudging nausea. But I've had worse – much, much worse, if I recall the incident in Bristol with my mates from uni at all – and so I tell myself to buck up and get changed.

I ensure that I leave my largest shirt for my roommate, whose legs I find dangling awkwardly off the edge of the bed. I still doubt it's going to fit him in all his lankiness; but then again, it's his own problem for packing insufficiently. I shouldn't care.

There's a newspaper stand a few blocks down from the hotel, and so I figure that I might as well take a walk and pick up a copy. I've plenty of time, since our train is due to leave at a quarter after noon and it's only just past seven. I end up having a conversation with the woman at the stand, and I'm about a minute away from asking her number when she apologises and says she has to call her boss. Of course.

I block out my friend's snoring and occasional unintelligible utterances as best I can as I sit coffee-less against the edge of the bed to read the paper. I'd love a cup right now, but I'm certain that ingesting anything at all is only going to make me more nauseated; so I reason that my typical morning fatigue is a good excuse for having to re-read sentences upwards of five times to have any comprehension of the articles. They're the same kind of thing as usual, sports that I used to play in school and politics that I have no control over. I suppose that my having to force myself to focus makes the reading more interesting. My mother was all about turning lemons into lemonade when I was a kid.

I'm halfway through an editorial on the recent trial of a graffitist when my friend's baritone throat issues a long, low moan. "Oh, God… John?" he mumbles into the pillows.

"Morning," I say.

He responds with a plaintive whine, one limp hand rising to shade his eyes. "It's so bright…" he groans. His voice is hoarse, raspy, the way he sounds when he's been on a case for a long time and has been too occupied with his chemicals or papers or what-have-you to speak even a single word.

I sigh as I flip to the next page in the paper. "You should have stopped when I told you to last night."

"Oh, please stop shouting," he whimpers as his palm moves to cover his exposed ear.

My voice is no louder than normal – in fact, if anything, it's early enough in the day that I'm probably quieter – but I drop my tone out of sympathy. "You alright, mate?"

He answers with some vague sort of 'mm-hmm' – as melodramatic as he can be sometimes, I have to give him that he avoids milking his discomforts – before asking, "Is this what they call a hangover?"

I grin. "Yeah. Pleasant, no?"

He sighs into the mattress. "Is there anything to do for it?"

"Not really." He grimaces. "Rehydration is the only thing that would make it any shorter, so some water might be good… eggs and bacon, eggs have cysteine – "

"No," he says immediately. He kicks off the covers with a mutter of 'it's hot' – this despite the fact that the air conditioner is running as relentlessly as ever – and buries his head further into the pillows. "What about the aspirin, I saw that you brought it…"

I had, in fact, brought it for myself, figuring that he would end up giving _me_ a headache – but as a matter of course, it ends up being that he's the one who needs it. "Not going to help. You just need to give your system time to process the ethanol."

He curls up tightly, as if trying to assuage the upheaval in his stomach, before grumbling something incomprehensible in response.

"You should at least have some water, Sherlock," I say. "Dehydration's only going to make you feel worse."

He shakes his head; being that his face is half-buried in the pillows, the movement is barely perceptible. Sometimes I think that the entirety of his behaviour is a cryptic code that it's my hell-sent challenge to decipher. At least I'm never bored. "Whatever you want. But you didn't listen to me last night, either, and now look where you are."

His head lifts in consideration, and I watch an almost comical struggle for decision contort his narrow face. I lean back, pleased that I've managed to get a one-up on him. He hates admitting when I'm right, but nevertheless, he drops back onto the mattress and mutters, "Fine."

I leave him with his nose squashed against the bed and his jacket crumpled around his limbs. That suit is ruined. Hopefully Jacques – no, Jack – enjoys dealing with it.

There's a small counter in a room off the hotel lobby that sells bagels and water bottles during the day – I'm really not sure why – and I buy one of each with Sherlock's money, thinking that I'll force myself to eat something a little later on. The fellow selling the goods attempts to cajole me into buying these travel brochures. I take a long time convincing him that I'm not interested.

One of the pillows is propped against the headboard when I return to the room, as if my friend was planning to sit up, but he's still lying facedown on the mattress. One of his thin hands shoots out from beneath his chest when he hears my footsteps. I shove the bottle into his fingers.

I sit on the carpet against his side of the bed and watch in slight amazement as he unscrews the cap with one hand and somehow manages to coax the water down his throat while he's still crushed into the pillows. He drops the half-empty bottle onto the floor when he's finished, sighs and again balls up.

I attempt a bite of the bagel. It tastes fine, but it doesn't go down quite as easily as I would have liked. I resort to nibbling at the bread bit by bit as I keep a close monitor on my stomach.

My friend is so quiet and uncharacteristically blasé about his boredom that it's only his occasional tossing and turning that reminds me he's awake. He moves slowly, deliberately, as if attempting to avoid jarring his insides any more than they already have been. He keeps a pillow grasped tightly around his downy head. As if his senses weren't already keen enough, the hangover has sharpened them to the point where my slightest motion has him flinching in discomfort. It's the light that seems to bother him the most; his eyes screw shut whenever he lifts his head. Pitying him, I take one of the blankets he's crudely discarded and drape it over the shade-less window to block out some of the sun.

I go about cleaning up the stuff we've strewn around the room after I've subjected myself to another finicky shower. I expected from day one that I would end up packing for him when we left, and I was right. There's no way I could force him to do it in his current state; that would be cruel. I go about my work as quietly as I can, hoping that I'm not disturbing him.

Once I've got everything put away – it takes me a full ten minutes just to fit all of Sherlock's rubbish in his suitcase – I busy myself with reading the rest of the paper. I'm a bit quicker now that I'm fully awake, but my friend's near-constant shuffling serves as a pretty severe distraction. It's as if his mind is so active that it needs to manifest itself in some permanent twitchiness.

It's half past ten when I rest my hand on his shoulder and murmur his name. He squints up at me as if in pain. "You have to get up," I say quietly.

He grimaces, pushes himself deeper into the mattress. "John, if I move, I'll vomit," he groans.

I try not to sigh. "You've been fidgeting all morning, Sherlock. You'll be fine."

"John," he whines in protest, but I gently pull him up to his feet. He grabs my shoulder to balance himself, glaring at me all the while.

Normally I'd get annoyed at him for fighting me, but he looks so ridiculously awful what with his hair a muddle and his suit in rumples and his face all ashen that I can't help but feel badly. "A shower might help," I offer, biting my lip in sympathy. As he attempts to settle his vision by rubbing his eyes and blinking harshly, I take the pile of clothes I've assembled for him from the side table and deliver it into his wavering hands.

He glances down. "It's _your_ shirt." He attempts to give me one of his accusing stares, but he looks so ill that it fails miserably.

"Yes," I say. "You didn't bring enough of yours."

"John, it's not going to fit and I feel sick," he gripes.

I sigh, purse my lips and hold his gaze. We stare at one another in a silent argument until he huffs and gusts off to the toilet. He in his irritation seems to forget that he shouldn't be moving that quickly, as he trips over himself and nearly goes sailing into the wall. Idiot.

He takes close to an hour to get ready, which is why I'm glad I got him up when I did. He swings the door open with a death-glare on his face like I've never seen before.

I explode into laughter.

My shirt is like a straitjacket around his torso, hugging his shoulders into his neck. The sleeves are about an inch shy of his wrists, and the buttons stretch the fabric so tightly about his chest that a part of me fears they'll pop. His arms are out at awkward angles, scarecrow-like, as the cloth corrupts the usual suavity of his figure. With a horse, he'd be a modern-day Ichabod Crane.

I do my best to staunch my mirth as he growls a self-conscious 'shut up' in my direction, tugging furiously at his collar and attempting to pull his sleeves down. He collapses heavily onto the bed that I've just made with his head in both hands. "John, I don't like this," he mutters.

I swallow back the rest of my laughter, my pity invoked. "You'll feel much better tomorrow," I reassure. I'm aware of how much like a parent I sound. "And I'm sure you'll be far more comfortable when we're home, so that's why – "

"Why would I feel more comfortable at Baker Street?" he snips.

I ignore him. I can't stand when he interrupts me. "So that's why," I say, trying to sound patient, "we need to go and board our train."

He lifts his head with his lips tightly together. I'm about to tell him that I know how poor he's feeling but he needs to chin up and deal with it when he says, with some tiny hint of chagrin, "John, perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier, but I am subject to some degree of motion sickness."

Wonderful.

He turns a lovely shade of slate twice over the course of the cab ride, the first time when the driver makes a very abrupt turn and the second when he makes a very abrupt halt. I gently suggest that he might want to consider bringing a bag on the train. The expression he gives me in response makes me glad that looks can't kill.

Thankfully, there's no delay when we arrive at the depot. We sit as close to the front of the train as possible on account of Sherlock. I insist that he take a window seat, but he insists that it's only going to make him worse, and so I throw our luggage up on the rack above and slide down to lean against the glass. He drops down next to me and bundles his knees up to his chest. He already looks awful. "You've never mentioned motion sickness before," I say reproachfully. I hate it when I'm useless. "If you had told me earlier, I could have gotten you something for it."

He's got his ears covered with his hands and his eyes shut tightly. "There was never any reason to," he mumbles.

I sigh. "There is now."

"John, please." His tone approaches desperation.

I realise how much noise and light surround us, between the chattering crowds and the fully-risen sun. It must be pretty dreadful for him. When my sister first started drinking, she could barely stand to leave her bedroom on hangover days. And it's not as if I haven't been in the same position. Out of pity, I press my mouth closed and turn to look out the window.

He curls up as tightly as he possibly can when the engines start and we jolt forward. He looks ridiculously small with his curly head between his skinny knees and his arms hugging his legs. My shirt strains against this contortion so that his skin seems to bulge out from beneath its folds. I have to remind myself that the sight of him in his condition isn't comical far too many times for it to be considered common decency.

I end up watching the fields dashing by the window, brilliantly verdant in the light of the noonday sun and dotted with small clusters of livestock. There are a few grayer clouds towards the south, but for the most part, the sky is a clear, prism-wrought blue. I figure it'll be raining when we're back in London, as it always is. It would certainly suit my friend's current mood.

We're quiet for a long while – the cornerstone of our familiarity seems to be our mastery of the "friendly silence" – when I hear his fingers clap against his skin. I look over at him in confusion to find his eyes a bit too wide, his face a bit too pale, and his hand a bit too tight over his mouth.

Oh, God.

"Sherlock, are you alright, mate?" I ask carefully. My thoughts are meanwhile chanting 'please don't' over and over again.

He stares intensely at the opposite seat. "John," he muffles, "I – " He cuts off in a gag, and I instinctively place my hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock… okay, just… breathe," I say, tapping his back in a way that I hope is soothing. I'm really not too sure what he thinks of physical touch; in fact, I'm really not too sure what he thinks of anything, but I pray that it's somehow doing something to ease him. "Do you think you're going to throw up?" I murmur.

He swallows hard. He opens his mouth to answer, but just ends up retching. I prepare for the worst.

He sits there like that for a long while, and there is a moment where his knuckles go white above his skin and I see his throat bobbing and I'm sure he's going to be sick; but suddenly, the tension departs from his frame and he sinks back into the seat in exhaustion. Relieved, I drop my hand from his shoulder and ask, "You alright?"

"Fine," he says with considerable strain.

I pause for a moment before I say, "You really need to listen to me more often."

"Shut up."

We fall back into silence, but it isn't quite as friendly as before. It's his own fault for being irresponsible.

I start glancing over at him on occasion out of worried habit. I see that he's decided to toss his feet out onto the opposite seat with his arms crossed lightly over his stomach. His eyes are still closed, and I observe his head nodding heavily every few moments. My heart entertains a slight hope that he'll end up drifting off, and then with any luck his state will improve, his mood will improve, and _my_ mood will improve.

"What?" he mumbles suddenly.

I look at him again. There goes that dream. "I didn't say anything."

"I know you were looking at me, what do you want?" He delivers the question in one long, unbroken, nausea-resisting monotone. I've no idea how he knows that, by the way.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought you might have been asleep. I suppose you weren't?"

He frowns lazily. "Resting my eyes," he burbles.

"Oh." Yeah, right.

We're out of Scotland, somewhere between Edinburgh and Newcastle, at about three in the afternoon. As I predicted, the sky has gotten quite a bit darker, and the sun I've been following on its path throughout the trip is occasionally obscured by some heavy clouds. I'm pretty sure that I even catch a rumble of thunder somewhere off in the distance.

I'm staring calmly out the window at the fields rushing by when I feel a weight drop against my shoulder. In surprise, I turn to my left only to lose my nose among the raven thickets of my friend's forest of hair. He's sound asleep.

And I'm his bloody pillow.

It doesn't even occur to me to rouse him. Though he's been doing well over the past couple of days, it's so rare he gets his rest that I know I need to take advantage of every small opportunity he gives me. If said opportunity happens to be dozing off against me thanks to the effects of an alcohol-induced hangover on a cramped, loud, hot train, so be it. Beggars like me can't be choosers like him.

The problem is that he's inadvertently shoved me against a knob beneath the window, and it's rather uncomfortable digging into my arm. I glance at his face now peaceful in repose, judging how deeply out he is. If the languidness of his breath, the amount of weight he's dropped on me, the obliviousness he has to the commotion around him, are able to be gone by, I'd say he's practically dead to the world.

I take my chance and carefully, slowly, shift myself away from the window. He exhibits no reaction, simply allowing me to move his inert form. I'm just thinking that the coast is clear when his throat issues some small noise and he wraps one arm around mine, his head nuzzling into the crook of my shoulder so that he's literally breathing down my neck. As if he doesn't do so metaphorically enough already.

I really do hate my life sometimes.

There isn't much I can do to begin with, and I'm basically paralysed with my roommate bloody _snuggling_ me like he does his blankets now. I would attempt to slip away from under him, but he's crushing me heavily enough that I would need to shove him to so much as move; and as much of a pain in the ass as he is, my conscience doesn't permit me to do that and risk waking him.

It's also far too hot now that I'm trapped beneath his weight, and his breath is warming the most ticklish spot on my neck, and his mumblings, though quiet, are right in my ear. I tilt my head as far to the side as I can with the hope that he'll shift a bit. He does, except rather than moving away from me as I had planned, he grunts and pulls himself closer. I suppose he must think I'm a whole bunch of pillows. I give up trying to move.

It's at about this point that I really wish there was some paint on the ceiling, because then at least I could watch it dry. There's nothing to do, and I'll be sitting here like this until nine. Unless, of course, he wakes up, but I'm doubting that that will happen anytime soon.

There's a bit of a delay when we stop in Newcastle at half past three, and a rather large crowd of passengers files in to fill the unoccupied seats. I notice one woman in sunglasses jostled around among the bodies, her attention too much occupied by her mobile to pay much notice to her surroundings. It is she, of course, who whisks into the first seat she sees – namely, the one directly across from Sherlock and me. We shouldn't have sat in the front row, that was a stupid idea.

She's just finishing a conversation as she sits down, the phone sliding from her pale ear accompanied by a quick 'see you'. Her jauntiness of behaviour and her haughtiness of expression discomfort me slightly, but nevertheless, out of common courtesy, I offer her a taut, "Hello." Sherlock grunts.

She glances over at me from beneath her shaded glasses so that I'm able to see the slightest hint of hazel in her eyes. Her gaze flickers from Sherlock's sleeping face to my reddening one with self-righteous distaste before she says, simply, "Hi."

Thankfully, I don't have to worry about saying anything in response, because she immediately dials another number and returns her mobile to her ear. It must be my lucky day, getting to listen to half of an overly bubbly dialogue on the merits of skin conditioning. I've no idea how she manages to keep the twenty-nine – oh, yes, I'm counting – twenty-nine brand names she tosses out all ordered in her head. Really, it's kind of amazing; not only does she know the names, but the average prices that go along with them and the average quality of their… beauty products? At least, I think that's what she's talking about.

Even my best efforts to tune her out are to no avail, and before Sherlock's watch ticks the hour I know all about Katie, and Jennifer, and Mallory, and then I hear worse things about Katie and Jennifer and Mallory when she starts talking to some Bethany, and I find out that Gertrude and Samuel are dating, and then I find out that Gertrude and Samuel _aren't_ dating – and then there's some nonsense about Tim, who apparently "belongs" to Jennifer, going behind Jennifer's back with "Jenifer-with-one-'n'-Jenifer", and Elizabeth who admitted she likes David two weeks ago before changing her mind to Stephen one week ago. I miss the NATO delegates.

Throughout the entirety of these animated half-conversations, my roommate has been making himself as comfortable as possible on the bed that he's turned me into. Both of his arms are wrapped around mine by now, and his legs have come up onto the seat so that his bony knees are digging into my side. I'm convinced at times that his breath is some insect crawling up the back of my neck, and I have to continually remind myself not to slap at it. All in all, though, his sleeping is still better than his talking. I imagine I'd have quite a bit of damage control to do if he took so much as one look at the unfortunate woman across from us.

I'm still trying to figure out whether or not Millie was actually in a car accident or if she lied about it to spite her sister when we pull up in Manchester. I'm praying that the woman – I realise that I still don't know her name, despite all of the talking – gets off here, but of course, she only appears to make herself more comfortable. It's for this reason that I'm surprised when she suddenly leaps to her feet and dashes out of the train a split second before the doors close. I'm not really sure what to make of any of that.

I far prefer my friend's nonsensical mumbling to the mobile conversation, although it's directly on my ear. Though I really do wish he'd stop moving. He alternates between being draped over my left side and sprawling out across the rest of the seat. I entertain myself by attempting to make some kind of story out of the occasional words I can decipher. I'm pretty sure I hear 'hydrochloric acid' at one point. He must _dream_ about crime. It's honestly kind of hilarious.

It's about five-thirty when we're in the middle of the country. I'm half-asleep myself, having had nothing to do for the past couple of hours but stare vacantly out the window. The clouds are far thicker now that we're approaching London, and I realise foggily that I'm very much looking forward to a nice night in.

I'm jolted out of my stupor when I feel my roommate's fingers tighten around my arm. My shoulder is freed of his weight as he lifts his head up. "J – ?" he begins; and then, realising the position he's in, he practically leaps away and proceeds to stare at me in embarrassment poorly hidden by irritation. "Why didn't you wake me?"

I blink into his drowsy eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you should have woken me." It's a blessed accusation. Honestly, the nerve.

It's only the fact that we're surrounded by people that keeps me from shouting at him. "Sherlock, I have been sitting for a full two-and-a-half hours with you breathing on me and… sweating and bloody cuddling me – "

"_Cuddling_?" he spits. "I don't _cuddle_, that word doesn't even belong in my vocabulary."

"Says the one who was holding my arm two minutes ago with his head on my shoulder," I mock.

His nostrils flare with anger. I see his lips twitching as he attempts to form a response. "Shut up," he says finally.

I snort. He has trouble arguing me when he's really inflamed. "That's the best you can come up with? Maybe you need to give yourself some time to recover from your little nap." I glance out the window again as I speak, and I'm able to see his expression of fury as he glowers at the back of my head. It takes me all my inner resolve not to start laughing.

He certainly seems more animated now, and perhaps it's just his rush of rage, but his face seems to have gained some colour. I also notice that his arms aren't clenching his stomach any longer. "You're looking better, by the way," I offer.

He ignores me with an indignant huff and frowns off into the distance. I'm about to call him out on his childishness when I see the slightest hint of a smile tug at the side of his lips. We both start giggling when our eyes meet. God, are we stupid. I'm glad.

"I think we're outside of Nottingham," I offer once we've settled down.

"Yes, I do have eyes and functioning optic nerves." I roll my eyes. "It's about time," he grumbles after another moment.

I frown. "What do you mean, it's about time, you've been asleep. Or, sorry, were you just resting your eyes?"

He withers. "Sarcasm has never suited you well, John."

We return to our usual silence as the train progresses on its route. A decent-sized group departs in the Nottingham depot, its space only half-filled by the new boarders. I'm peacefully watching my feet when, without warning, Sherlock ducks into his knees. I'm about to ask him what he's doing when he mutters, "Keep your head down and don't let anyone see you."

Confused, I follow his command. "What are you doing?" I ask, only to have him shush me sharply. I lower my voice, feeling my heartbeat pick up. "Sherlock, is it a murderer?"

"No, it's far worse," he murmurs.

I frown. "Oh, God, not Moriarty?"

He shakes his head. "Then what?" I press.

"Your wonderful little blog is about to get us recognised," he growls. I'm about to look around to see what he's talking about when he mutters, "_Don't_ look up, I've already told you not to do that, they're going to see us."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a group of four girls a few rows back. Certainly enough, one of them has a deerstalker pin. "The hat again," I say.

His lips press together in irritation. "I've said repeatedly that that blog is worthless, and now look."

"Worthless?" I shout in an undertone. "It's thanks to my blog that you end up with clients."

"I had clients before you and your posts came along," he snorts.

"Yes, and you were also an addict and a smoker who was blacking out – frequently – for lack of self-upkeep – "

"Oh, shut up. And I was clean before I met you, anyway."

I pause for a moment. "You seem to be forgetting the closet incident from last year."

"I told you that was for an experiment!"

"But you weren't _clean_."

"I wasn't using, and you're well aware of it."

"Possession of drugs – "

"Not drugs, _John_, chemicals, get your facts straight before you attempt to argue me."

"Uh, last time I checked, _Sherlock_, cocaine is a drug. I'm the doctor here, I think I know what I'm talking about."

"Don't flaunt your degree, it doesn't give you any added credence."

"I wasn't flaunting!"

We turn huffily away from one another. It's a wonder no one ever hears our whisper-fights.

He keeps an eye on the group of girls, occasionally ducking to the side and always shoving me with him. I would ask him to stop, but my pride doesn't want me to speak to him; and so I trade my comfort for my dignity. I'm used to this by now, anyway.

The group is off at the next stop. We have an unsettlingly close brush with them when they walk by, but Sherlock's tactical espionage action keeps us unseen.

The moon is high in the sky by the time we're finally in London again at around half past nine. We have another argument about who's taking which luggage. He tries to pull the hangover-illness card, but his obvious attempt at appealing to my sympathy has me responding most unsympathetically.

I've never been happier to ascend the seventeen steps up to our rooms, although I'm laden down with my suitcase and Sherlock is whining about God-knows-what. He immediately collapses onto the sofa. "I'm not unpacking for you," I say firmly.

"I didn't ask you to," he mumbles.

I would pursue the issue, but I'm a bit too travel-lagged to do much but acquiesce. "I'm ordering takeaway, do you want anything?"

He presses his hands together beneath his chin. It's such a familiar gesture that I can't help but smile. "Depends where you're ordering from."

"Well, are you hungry?" After a long time looking for a place to put the luggage, I simply drop it on the floor. It's not as if it's clean enough that it makes a difference.

He doesn't answer. I've learned to take silence as a begrudging 'yes'. Certainly he'll be fine with Chinese, it's the only thing he complains about on "the most minimal level".

We're soon seated at the table in the kitchen, chopsticks in hand, among containers of rice and stir fry. "So," I say as I gulp down a mouthful of vegetables, "still haven't been to a wedding you liked?"

He frowns disparagingly. "Obviously I didn't enjoy yesterday."

"You were fine last night," I respond.

"You were clearly referring to the ceremony," he snips. He's got this awful habit of talking with his mouth full so that I can barely understand what he's saying.

I swallow. "But still. Nice drinking with you. Surprisingly."

He pauses with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth to look closely at me. It's a brief moment before he gives me a twitchy half-smile. I return it with all the ease of a comfortable friendship. "But we're not doing that again for a while," I add.

He laughs, a sincere, open laugh, and I realise how glad I am that I know him. How very, very glad.


End file.
